


Reconciliation

by betweenthebliss



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003), Star Trek (2009)
Genre: 40000-50000 words, Away Mission Gone Wrong, Community: startrekbigbang, Crossover, Cylons, Multi, Rescue Mission, Romulans, Space Battle, Space Opera, Star Trek Big Bang 2009
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 20:56:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 44,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betweenthebliss/pseuds/betweenthebliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the border of the Neutral Zone, the Enterprise runs into the Battlestar Galactica, reuniting Kirk with his old friend Kara Thrace. The Colonials are in trouble; their ship has been damaged and Admiral Adama taken hostage by cylons newly allied with the Romulan Empire. Eager for proof of an alliance that could endanger the entire Federation, Kirk commits the Enterprise to helping the Colonials out; but as usual, nothing goes according to plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. but first, to arms, to armor

**Author's Note:**

> thanks due to SO many people. first, my betas. this fic literally would not exist right now if it were not for raindissolved, who let me bounce ideas off her at all hours of day and night, who supplied me with her vast stores of TOS trivia to back up my canon knowledge, who saw connections where i was stumped and offered a myriad of fantastic ideas to get me over my writer's blocks. much credit also goes to douxquemiel, who read and flailed and offered me cookies and reminded me that not only was i able to finish this beast, but if i didn't, she would personally hunt me down (and she knows where i live, too). i will work that stone tower house into a story someday, sarah, mark my words. :"} and the lovely and amazing raphaela667 who took a huge load off my mind back in the summertime by agreeing to beta this, whose fervent declarations of love for my characterizations never get old (♥!) and whose attention to detail is second to none. i love working with you, and i've been *so* glad to have your help in giving my baby some spit and polish. XD
> 
> my artist, singingintime, and my mixer, ninety6tears, who love these fandoms as much as i do, and whose creative genius (genii?) are everything i could've hoped for in a pair of collaborators. i can't thank you guys enough for signing up for my story, and i can't begin to express my love for what you created to go with it. thank you, thank you, thank you.
> 
> and to everyone who supported me and was patient with me and commiserated with me throughout the four months (!!!) i've spent writing this monstrosity, and last but not least to my tet (they know who they are). ♥

The room is almost dark, the only illumination a slice of light from the door to the bathroom, enough to pick out shapes and contours but not much else. His hand traces her spine from nape to sacrum, his knee bending to brace his foot against the wall; his head falls back, exposing his throat to her lips as their voices break the silence together, one over a laugh, the other a drawn-out gasp.

His words are low, but clear and fervent, breathless. "You're killing me."

Her hands slide up his arms, linking their fingers as she presses herself against him; her hips move sinuously and someone's breath catches, their hands break apart, one pair to clutch the sheets, the other to thread hard through the tumbled mass of red curls falling around them.

"I certainly hope not," she sighs. Her voice is bemused, but no more steady than his.

"You just say that so-- oh God, yes," he interrupts himself as she moves again, words sharp, cutting across the sounds of ragged breathing, bodies shifting. Muttered encouragements, urgent and fierce until words escape them; and there is nothing but the tension between heartbeats, quickening, stretching until it snaps, recoiling through every muscle as for a sweet moment they forget even to breathe. Then the moment passes, and they collapse side by side with their fingers tangled together.

The room's ambient temperature is warm and the sheets are rumpled at one end of the bed, and for several minutes the only sound is of two people catching their breath.

"That was," he says, still so short of breath he has to pause there, and he is interrupted by her laughter.

"Yeah, it was," she agrees, her self-satisfied smile audible. "You ready for the light?"

He groans, his arm thrown into relief by the dim light as he runs a hand through his hair. "How late am I?"

She chuckles again. "Late enough that you shouldn't have a choice about being ready for the light."

"Okay, okay. Computer, lights," he says, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

There are days, Sulu thinks, glaring and blinking up into the harsh overheads, when he really wishes he could call in sick without everyone knowing 'sick' was code talk for 'staying in bed all day'.

"This isn't going to reflect poorly on you, I hope," he hears her say as he reaches for his shirt.

"Nah. I'll be fine. Besides, we're stopped all day, it's not like I have anywhere to fly us."

"But your review next month-- for the promotion, Hikaru, I'm sorry, I forgot--" he turns back; her expression is stricken, and he shakes his head, leaning over to kiss her.

"Really, it's okay. I can't remember the last time I was late, I'll just say I overslept or something." Gaila relaxes and nods, and he looks at her until she smiles again before returning to the hunt for his clothes. "Don't you have to get up?" he asks, glancing back over his shoulder with a grin as he stands, zipping up his pants.

Gaila rolls over onto her stomach, shaking her head with a guilty smile. "Nope. I'm on gamma tonight." Her grin turns into a laugh as Hikaru groans, and she chucks a pillow at him. "Hey, you didn't mention you were due on the bridge at 0800 when you showed up here."

"Touche," he admits, dropping the pillow back on the bed. "But I'm pretty sure about half my missing brain cells were your fault-- you send a guy a message like that, Gaila, he can't be held responsible for his actions," he teases.

She shrugs, unapologetic. "I was lonely. And it's been what-- months, since I've seen you for more than an hour at a time?" She grins up at him, sweet and alluring. "We don't do this nearly as often as we should."

"Can't argue with you there." He knows she doesn't just mean the sex; they were friends long before they started keeping each other company in bed when they got bored or lonely, and when they work opposite shifts like this he gets bored and lonely a lot.

"And we're going to be rebooting the entire Engineering mainframe tonight," she goes on, sighing as she stretches her arms out, her back arching like a cat's. "So when I say I'm on gamma shift, I mean I'm on gamma and delta and probably half of tomorrow's alpha too." She shakes her head. "You'd think they'd schedule maintenance that requires dropping out of warp for a time when we're already not at warp-- like docked at a station or something."

Hikaru shrugs. "Hey, you're the one with the workaholic freak genius for a boss-- oh wait, I forgot," he deadpans with a little roll of his eyes, "that's me too."

Gaila's laughter sparkles through the room, and he leans down to run a hand through the softness of her hair, feeling the curls slide under his palm, tipping her face up to his for a parting kiss. "Get some rest then," he says fondly, "and if you're lucky I'll bring you coffee later tonight."

She wrinkles her nose. "You bring _Janice Rand_ coffee," she points out. "How about you bring me dinner, and I'll come keep you company in the botany lab tomorrow afternoon."

He laughs. "You're a highway robber, Gaila."

"It's why you love me," she agrees contentedly, burrowing into the pillow with a happy sigh.

Hikaru stops just before the door, looking back at the gorgeous picture she paints, green skin and red hair on grey sheets. "I'll see you later," he promises, and is running toward the bridge before her door's even shut behind him.

"Captain, we're being hailed." Uhura doesn't sound as perky as usual, but it's only half an hour into alpha shift; maybe she hasn't had her coffee yet.

"Up on screen, Lieutenant," Jim directs, waving a hand toward the front of the bridge, but she replies, "Captain, this is a radio-only hail."

Jim assesses the picture of their ship on the viewscreen; it's familiar to him, but he can't quite place it, as old and battered as the Enterprise is new and clean. "Old school, I like it," he says, smiling. "Patch them through, then."

There's a beat, then a crackle of static. "This is Commander Lee Adama of the Battlestar Galactica, flagship of the Kobol Colonies. Can you hear me?"

"Captain James Kirk of the Federation Starship Enterprise. I hear you, Commander," says Jim, and he knows his surprise is showing on his face. "What can we do for you?"

"This is more of a warning than anything, Enterprise... as you can see we're walking wounded. There's a hostile armada two days behind us, and if you keep on your current path--" there's more static, distorting someone's loud outburst in the background, but Adama ignores both-- "you'll run right into them."

Kirk's eyebrows shoot up; he half-turns to meet a similar look from Spock. "Commander, the border with the Neutral Zone is less than a day away-- are you telling me you came from the other side?"

That static again, someone yelling, and it sounds like Adama puts his hand over the comm and yells back. He sounds pissed when he comes back. "Sorry for the disturbance, Captain, we're having a-- gods damn it--"

Sounds of a scuffle, and then a new voice over the comm, one Jim would've put at the bottom of a list of voices he'd ever expected to hear over a comm link this far out in space, smug and exhausted and female. "Jim Kirk, by all the gods... who'd you frak to end up captain of a fancy starship?"

His face is doing something ridiculous, he knows, 'cause Chekov's trying not to grin and Spock looks like he has a stomachache. "Holy--" he bites off the curse, barely. "Kara Thrace," he goes on, laughing, avoiding eye contact with everyone else on the bridge. "Running from border patrols now-- don't tell me the galaxy's that small, you had to go looking for newer, more interesting ways to try and kill yourself?"

The strain in her voice sounds clearer now; it sounds like it's been a while since she slept. "We know where we were, Jim, and we know it's gonna bring down a world of hurt on the Federation sooner or later... but we had to. We just-- there was no other choice. Lee, what--"

Adama's voice again. "Captain, I think it might be best if we explained in person." Kirk nods to himself; he was going to let them explain themselves anyway, but it's better if they think it's their idea.

"Contact us when you're ready to beam over," he says.

There's a pause, and then Adama says, "We don't-- we'll come in a raptor."

Kirk's eyebrows raise; no transporters, then. "Shuttle it is," he says smoothly. "Bring whoever you need."

"Understood, Captain. Galactica out."

Jim stands and sweeps his arm toward the turbolift. "Spock, Uhura, with me. Chekov, you have the conn, and when Sulu shows up you make sure you tell him you're in charge. We'll be in shuttle bay four."

In the turbolift Spock gives him the look Uhura's trying like hell to keep to herself, the one that says _Really, Captain?_ and makes him feel like he's a six-year-old playing dress-up in a uniform.

"What?" he says evenly. "They're part of the Federation, Spock, we can't not hear them out."

Uhura looks like she wants to reply; Spock still doesn't know when it's useless to argue, or maybe he's just not done hoping Jim will grow some common sense.

"And if we deem their actions have violated the terms of the Neutral Zone Peace Accord? Forgive me, Captain, but I do not believe you will arrest your friend or her captain."

"I've heard about her commander; he's an ass," says Jim, maturely, "and anyway something's wrong." His memory of Kara's stories isn't what it would've been if he'd heard them sober, but he remembers enough. "This Commander's not the real Commander-- it's his father, the Admiral's the one in charge, the fact that he wasn't the one on the other end of that hail means something's wrong."

Finally Uhura opens her mouth. "No one's saying they're at fault, Captain." The 'yet' goes unsaid.

"Don't humor me," he tells her, smiling, though as usual she's hit the nail on the head. He looks away from both of them, looking straight ahead at the door that's about to open. "Once they're on board we'll all have to be on our best behavior-- it might not be easy. You think I'm good at provoking interstellar incidents, Kara Thrace puts me to shame."

Jim can practically feel both of Spock's eyebrows go up, and he exits the turbolift laughing.

They wait in the shuttle bay while the battered little craft docks. The side hatch opens and five people step out-- two men, three women, only one not wearing a military uniform. The shorter man steps forward; this is Adama, then. Spock had not expected someone this young. They are of an age, he and the Captain, and Spock already anticipates this going poorly.

"Commander," Jim says, "welcome to the Enterprise. This is Commander Spock, my first officer, and Lieutenant Uhura."

"Captain, thank you for having us." Adama sounds uncomfortable. "This is my XO, Captain Karl Agathon, Lieutenant Sharon Agathon, Lieutenant--"

"We've met, remember?" The blonde to Adama's left interrupts as she hops off the shuttle's landing platform and steps up in front of the captain. Her grin is almost as insolent as his as she holds out her hand. "Jim Kirk. How the hell are you?"

Jim knows he should be professional; he shakes her hand, and Spock watches the inner debate cross his face an instant before he pulls the Lieutenant-- Thrace, like the city-state of ancient Greece on Earth-- into a friendly embrace. "Not too bad, Kara."

He claps her on the back and they separate, Thrace shooting a look back over her shoulder, almost sheepish. "Sorry ma'am, didn't mean to steal your thunder."

"Don't apologize." The older woman steps forward with a smile both fond and familiar, as comfortable in her neat grey suit as the rest of them are in uniform. "Captain, Commander, Lieutenant-- I'm Laura Roslin."

Nyota's face registers surprise. "The President in exile," she murmurs without thinking.

Roslin's mouth quirks, and Spock sees Nyota blush faintly as Jim steps in, smooth as he can be, shaking the President's hand without a sign he even heard his communications officer had spoken. "Welcome aboard, ma'am. It's our honor to have you here."

One thing Jim's good at is dispensing with formalities; before any of them know it they're strolling toward the state conference room, the captain up front with the President, Thrace and Adama right behind. It is, Spock thinks, as if they don't want to let her too far out of their sight. It's all pleasantries, discussing the specifications of the Enterprise, a few anecdotes about their genius engineer and barely-legal physics prodigy, and then they're seated around the table and the questions begin to come out.

"I don't have to tell you what it means to the Federation that you were over the border," Jim says, his tone frank, neither pandering nor accusing; Spock notes this improvement in diplomacy over previous missions.

"No, Captain, you don't," Roslin returns with equal honesty. "And no one in this room is to blame for the fact that we were. It will be easier if I tell the story," she adds, glancing between Thrace and Adama, who are both, Spock realizes, struggling to stay silent.

"I don't know how much you know of our history, but three years ago our system was attacked, our planets nuked, ninety-eight percent of our people wiped out by the race known as cylons. We had created them, years before, they were intelligent robots who served us until they won their independence forty years ago. After the war they signed a peace treaty and then vanished... and when they returned it was with a vengeance." Her voice is full of feeling, and Spock finds he cannot look at her while she tells this story, though it is one he knows.

"We have been fighting them ever since-- fighting, and running, and trying to keep them from wreaking the same havoc on other systems. The Federation sees this as a civil war, and so we have been largely on our own in this fight." She pauses, gives Jim a rueful smile. "If I could trouble you for a glass of water, Captain..."

Jim shoots to his feet, goes to the replicator, returns to the table with two carafes and a stack of cups, pouring Roslin one himself while she continues.

"A month or so ago, Galactica split off from the civilian fleet, leaving our other battlestar to protect them while we moved as bait for the cylons to follow. I was in a raptor-- a shuttle-- traveling from the fleet back to Galactica when we were captured."

Her next words send a chill down Spock's spine.

"Captured by Romulans."

Nyota stirs beside him; Jim all but lunges forward in his chair, one hand now flat on the tabletop, his mouth agape as he stares at her in dismay. "Wait-- forgive me, this is going to sound rude, but-- what did they want you for?"

Her smile is bone dry. "For bait, Captain." She sips from her glass, good cover for regaining her composure. "It would seem the cylons have found a ready ally in your outcast race-- or so this ship's captain intimated to me. He was too smart to give me many details, but he freely admitted they acted on behalf of their cylon allies, and that I was little more than a bargaining chip."

"What did they--"

"The Admiral," Thrace cuts in, finally too restless to remain silent. "They contacted us and told us they had her, and that he would give himself up in exchange or they'd kill her and then destroy Galactica."

"How did he know they wouldn't--"

"That is hardly a logical demand--" They speak out at the same time; Spock looks hard at Jim, whose expression is almost as brittle as he feels his own must be.

"Isn't it?" Roslin smiles, sad and beautiful, and abruptly Spock is reminded so forcefully of his mother he cannot think for several seconds. When he regains control of himself, she has already continued speaking. "--would trade himself for me, and he did. Gods know what they're doing to him," she murmurs the last almost to herself with a single shake of her head.

Jim glances at Spock again, his eyes dark. They can both guess what the Romulans are doing to Admiral Adama. Spock thinks of Pike in his hoverchair, and hopes Adama has the good sense to talk before the slugs come into play.

They have discussed this, of course, he and Jim. The possibility has been ever present, that the Empire would not long be content to remain on the sidelines while the Federation went about colonizing the galaxy in the name of civilization. Spock simply did not think the Romulans would reach this point so soon.

"How was your ship damaged?" he asks, to assuage his curiosity as well as change the subject.

Roslin looks at Thrace, seeming to give over the reins of the conversation, and Thrace sits forward in her chair, leaning her elbows on the table as she speaks. "After the Admiral flew over to their ship, we tried to take it. Thought if we could damage them enough, we could convince them to let him go... didn't work as well as we'd thought." Her teeth show in the semblance of a smile, but there is no humor in it.

"Their weapons are more advanced than we'd thought. Our FTL drive's frakked," says Adama, "and without full power to our weapons we couldn't fight off an attack from a transport shuttle, let alone another one of those Romulan warships."

Spock considers the tale he has just been told. The Colonials have not asked for anything yet. They will not need to ask for help repairing their ship; Jim will volunteer that, Spock does not doubt. Beyond that, he does not know what their desired course of action might be. He knows very well the tendency of humans to form attachments to each other, and it is plain the Colonials feel a great attachment to their Admiral. How that might affect their actions, Spock is unsure; that it _will_ affect them, he is certain.

"Okay," Jim says after a moment of silence. "I can't speak for the whole Federation, but from where I'm sitting it seems you didn't really have much of a choice. They attacked first, and they might try to claim otherwise, but that's besides the point. You did what you had to do." He directs this at Roslin, who smiles again. "Now, you need to get your ship patched up, we'll help you out there, that's no problem. And I'm thinking the Federation will want to know about this alliance the Romulans have made, since I doubt the Empire's going to be volunteering the information anytime soon."

"Probably not," Adama agrees.

"What are you going to do after you're fixed?" Jim asks next, nonchalant though it is clear the weight the answer will hold in the captain's mind.

Adama and Thrace share a look; Spock sees understanding pass between them without the need for words. It is Adama who speaks. "We're going to get my father back." His chin lifts, pride and defiance in equal measure. "We sent our stealth fighter after the ship that took him, we know where their outpost is."

"And you're hoping to get past the combined forces of two hostile races to do that?" Kirk sounds genuinely surprised, both concerned and intrigued; these are the sort of impossible odds that interest him. "

"All due respect, Captain," says Adama, something almost like a smirk playing around his lips, "but I don't think you really know what we're dealing with. The cylons have made it their business not to let anyone get too good a look at them, and we're the only ones who've been on the receiving end of their weapons in forty years. We know how they work, we can find a way to beat them."

Kirk's jaw tightens. "All due respect, _Commander_," he returns, "but I could say the same to you. Your stealth fighter might be top of the line, but I'm guessing you don't know the Romulans are working on cloaking technology. And from how quick you were to attack their ship, I'm also guessing you don't know how ruthless they are. You're lucky they didn't obliterate you."

Adama plainly thinks this is an exaggeration; if a nod could ever be said to be insolent, Spock thinks it would be the one the Commander directs at Kirk now. "Duly noted, Captain. I'm just saying, we've been fighting this war for years on our own, we don't need to have our hands held crossing the street here."

Jim's eyebrows go up, but he does not answer; wise, Spock thinks. In two years he has begun to learn when diplomacy is better served by silence.

Roslin speaks. "First thing's first, gentlemen, we need to get back on our feet. Captain, I think I can speak for Commander Adama when I say we can't thank you enough for your help."

Spock reads the tension in the man's face as Adama says, "Just let us know what you need."

Jim nods. "Send over your ship's schematics and we'll have a team to you first thing tomorrow to start repairs." He gets to his feet, as formal as he ever gets, and as the Colonials rise he goes around to shake their hands; Roslin, Adama, the Agathons, even his friend Thrace. Spock watches a flicker of relief, gratitude perhaps, cross her face as their hands clasp, and Jim's mouth edges toward a smile.

"Spock will see you back to your shuttle," he says, and catches Spock's eye as everyone gets to their feet. Spock does not need words to understand Jim's concern and apprehension, nor to communicate his own.

He is already certain this will not be as easy as anyone would like it to be.

Jim hails him at zero seventeen that night, sounding fatigued. "Can't sleep. Feel like chess?" Spock does not particularly want to play, but he knows if he says no the captain will find someone to entertain him who may actually have been asleep first. They meet on deck three where they have a view; Spock arrives first.

"I'd ask what you were doing awake, but from what I can tell you never sleep anyway," Jim says as he ambles up, red-socked feet showing underneath his pajama pants.

Spock is still in his uniform. "You know very well I sleep," he says, choosing the white pieces and beginning to arrange them on the board, "having gone out of your way to disturb my rest on more than one occasion."

Jim looks pleased. "Aw Spock, I never knew you noticed." He sets up his own pieces and sits back to let Spock take the first move.

"So," he says after a minute, "what'd you think of them?"

Spock is surprised it has taken this long for him to ask. "I cannot say I was able to form an accurate assessment of any of the Colonials save, perhaps, President Roslin," he says; then, knowing it will not satisfy Jim's curiosity, continues, "But from what I did see, I will admit to no surprise that you and Lieutenant Thrace are so companionable."

Jim laughs, appreciative. "Come on though, you talked to all of them. You've gotta have something to say."

Spock considers his next move. "I found the Agathons intelligent and respectful. Captain Agathon especially-- he appears insightful, I believe he has known Adama and Thrace quite some time." He saves Adama for last, not only because he knows the Commander is the person Jim most wants to hear about. "Their Commander-- in the turbolift, you said he was an ass. I respectfully disagree."

Jim snorts, moves his rook without appearing to consider where it's going. "Suppose you think he's a stand-up guy."

"I find him very young for the position into which he has stepped, and burdened by an awareness of the pressures put upon him by all that responsibility entails." Spock's eyes dart to Kirk's, framed by expressive eyebrows; the point will not be lost unless Jim chooses to lose it.

Instead, Jim moves to capture one of Spock's pawns, tossing him a grin as he sits back in his chair. "I'm not buying it," he announces as Spock returns to considering the board. "You don't have to be a dick all the time, even if you are uptight with responsibility-- I mean look at you," he says, gesturing with one hand before folding it back across his chest. His grin, which Spock sees out of the corner of his eye, proves he knows he is being belligerent. "You've loosened up a little in what, two years? Anything's possible."

Spock's eyes narrow and he captures one of Jim's rooks. "I do not find your comparison apt."

Jim winces. "Ouch. Guess I earned that."

Spock does not smile. "I found President Roslin most intriguing," he continues. "She is clearly a brilliant and capable woman, very well educated, yet I find it fascinating that her religious faith not only guides her actions but makes her more appealing to the Colonials as a leader."

Jim shrugs. "Belief's important to her-- to most of them. She's become this iconic figure to them, they follow where she and the Admiral lead. He leads with his gut, she leads with her heart."

"And I do not doubt that is what made your response to her as favorable as my own," Spock says dryly. Jim responds by capturing a white rook. Spock's eyebrow twitches, and he studies the board in silence again.

"How do you do that?"

It is not the first time Jim has asked that question, but he means something different by it each time, forcing Spock to ask for clarification. "How do I do what?"

"Read me like that, just, I don't know, reduce me to this mathematical probability you can predict like a goddamn barometer."   
Spock would like to point out that his ability to predict Jim's actions is in no way related to mathematics or probability, and that he is in many ways easier to read than any archaic weather instrument. What he says instead is much more diplomatic. "I was merely pointing out your tendency to sympathize with those who-- as you put it-- follow their hearts. It is a trait you prize and one you emulate, therefore it is hardly more surprising for you to respond to the President's emotional warmth than it is for me to respond to her intellect." He moves his bishop; Kirk takes another pawn.

"Alright, alright," he says with a wave of his hand. "I just hate it when you analyze me."

Spock thinks perhaps he is mollified by hearing that Spock acknowledges him following his heart. It was not specifically a compliment, but nor was it an insult. Spock moves his bishop up one level and says nothing. The silence stretches and Jim moves his knight in position to capture Spock's queen in three moves.

"I wasn't expecting this," says Jim three moves later when Spock has captured his bishop and safely removed his queen from harm's way.

"You will need to clarify," Spock tells him.

"The cylons-- the Romulans-- all of it. How they can still be plotting like this-- why they hate us so damn much."

Spock recognizes his frustration; it is something the captain suffers from whenever they face a particularly problematic mission, whenever stubborn prejudice and old hatred stir people to war when Jim so badly wants to give them peace.

"Your desire to understand the situation is commendable," Spock says quietly, "but in this case I think you will agree it is unlikely to bear fruit."

Jim moves his bishop, leaving his knight unprotected, but if Spock takes the bait Jim will have his queen in two moves. Instead he brings his own knight down one level, taking another of Jim's pawns.

"Unlikely, sure, but doesn't mean it's not worth a shot. I mean look at all the diplomatic stuff I've managed not to screw up so far. You'd think it'd get me somewhere convincing the Empire I didn't take down Nero 'cause we secretly hate Romulans, but because he destroyed a planet and deserved to get blown to hell."

"You are far more adept at avoiding catastrophes than when our mission began," he replies, suppressing a flicker of emotion that might have crossed his face as Jim dismantles the trap Spock was setting for his bishop.

Jim's eyes are warm and full of satisfaction. "I'm not so bad at chess either," he observes, tipping his chair back on two legs and thrusting his fingers into his hair, making it stand on end.

"Yes," says Spock, "I had noticed." It doesn't stop him from taking Jim's knight, and then his bishop two moves later.

"What do you think our odds are," Jim asks, now with his chin resting on his fists.

"Of retrieving the Admiral, or of doing so without an altercation that is likely to lead to war with the combined Romulan and cylon forces?"

Jim's face screws up and he makes a noise of disgust, moving his knight up to the top level. "Take your pick, Spock. Check."

Spock does not answer. There is nothing he can say to ease Jim's mind on this matter tonight, and he will have Jim checkmated in three moves.

Three moves later Jim tips over his king and sits back in his seat, arms folded over his chest. He stares at the board, his expression tense and distant. Spock nods toward it, toward the space between them. "You played well." He does not usually offer such condolences, and does not quite know why he does so now.

It does not matter, for Jim does not seem comforted. "I still lost, Spock."

Kirk goes over the next day with the repair detail, Scotty and Gaila and a handful of the other engineers who're all but slavering over the prospect of a real vintage FTL drive to wrap their wrenches around. They beam onto the hangar deck, into the midst of a busy throng of people in orange who all try really hard not to stare, a big bear of a guy shouting orders and everyone scrambling to get out of his way.

They watch a fighter jet roll by, a pilot's name and callsign printed under the cockpit, and Kirk elbows Scotty in the ribs. "Just make sure Sulu never hears about these or he'll defect."

Scotty smothers a guffaw as Kara clatters down a ladder toward them, Agathon in tow. "Morning boys," she says, turning her grin up a few extra watts as she looks them over. When she gets to Jim, she smirks. "Kirk. Looking like the underside of a three-day-old tire track, as usual. Is this what you call 'early' in Starfleet?"

Jim snorts. "You know how I like to make an impression."

Agathon's face is a perfect mix of bemusement and exasperation; Jim's reminded strongly of Bones, and gives the man a grin.  
In looks at least, Galactica couldn't be more different from the Enterprise if she tried, all angles and corners, the light casting everything toward the yellow side of the spectrum, the uniforms dark as shadows. A ship from a different time, a time Jim's not sure he's glad to see swinging round to face them again.

Still, it's not hard to tell she's a good home to her crew, or that they love her as fiercely as Jim's people love the Enterprise.

They turn down a corridor and Agathon looks at Kara sharply. "You want to go this way?"

She doesn't blink, just nods. "Yeah, Helo, come on." Jim frowns, about to ask what they're talking about, but then they round a corner and he doesn't need to ask.

Whatever this hallway used to be for, it's not being used that way anymore. The bare walls they've been walking past have disappeared behind a collage of photographs and letters, every ledge and surface crowded with tokens, candles, remembrances. A fifty-yard gauntlet of memory, a shrine to the Colonials' grief.

He is stunned into silence. Beside him, Scotty's expression mirrors his own; he glances back and meets Gaila's troubled glance.

"Kara," he begins, quickening his pace and shouldering between her and Agathon. She glares up at him, but the set of her jaw is less defiant than vulnerable.

"It's different when you see it like this, isn't it," she mutters. "Maybe now you understand why we had to go after him."

"I always understood," he says, soft but adamant.

Jim's barely had time to process everything he just saw before they're in front of a set of doors guarded by marines with helmets and rifles; they let their XO through without blinking, and then Jim's looking at Galactica's bridge-- what they call the CIC. Different in form, similar in function; Jim sees tactical, communications and weapons stations, navigation, then they're down a couple of stairs and everyone's trying not to be caught looking at the newcomers.

Adama's at the center of it all in front of an oblong table that doubles as a tactical array; little models of Galactica and groups of their fighter jets sit off to one side next to a pile of clipboards and papers (and isn't that funny, how long has it been since he saw people writing on paper? Even in Iowa they had first-generation padds in the high school). Adama's eyes are lifted up to the radar screen, where a triangle of dots marking a squadron of planes are flying through a maneuver.

"Galactica, Hot Dog," a voice crackles over the line, "starting delta maneuver six, on my mark." Kara pulls up next to Adama at the table, Kirk and Agathon across from them; Adama eyes them without comment and picks up a handset that resembles the old telephone Jim's mother had hung onto until Frank tossed it in the trash one of the hundred times she was off-planet.

"Hot Dog, Galactica actual, do it right this time and bring our birds in."

"Understood, Galactica, Hot Dog out."

Kara snorts, muttering under her breath, "Only four tries? Going soft, Apollo."

"Captain Kirk," he says, ignoring her, his eyes sharp and intent on Jim's face. "Welcome to Galactica." Kirk can see it in every line of his body, the jealous pride he takes in his ship, and on a whim he decides Kara's ass of a commanding officer might deserve to have Kirk be a little less of an ass back to him.

"She's impressive, Commander," he says, no trace of a grin that might make Adama think he's kidding. "Kara's told me some stories-- sounds like you've been through hell more than a few times."

Nothing outwardly changes, but Jim can tell Adama settles a little; he might know he's being placated, but he can tell Jim's sincere, too, and it helps-- at least, it had better. Jim's not about to suffer a week in repair dock with this guy breathing down his neck the entire time.

"She's a tough old girl," the Commander agrees with a nod. His focus turns to Scotty, then, standing a bit behind Kirk looking awkwardly thrilled to be there. "Think you can patch her up?"

"Yes sir," says Scotty, stepping up with his earnest grin, winning the start of a smile from Adama in return. Kirk could hug him-- Scotty, that is.

Adama manages to look thrilled without actually smiling, something Kirk thought it was impossible for anyone who wasn't Spock to convey. "Mr. Gaeta here will show you around-- if you have any trouble, he's your man." The indicated Mr. Gaeta appears by Adama's elbow, nodding to all of them. Kara ignores him; that's interesting, thinks Kirk, and files it away under _buttons to push later_.

"Never met an engine I couldn't fix, sir," says Scotty, "so just show me where to go and I'll have you a report by the end of the day."

"Follow me," says Gaeta, and Scotty falls into step beside him.

There's an awkward silence as Kara and Adama both let their eyes drift back to the radar screen above; Jim only lets it hang for a minute before breaking it.

"Those planes in the hangar, what do you call 'em?"

Kara barely smothers a snort, dragging her eyes away from the flight pattern long enough to favor him with a wry _you idiot_ sort of smile. "Vipers, Jim. Not that you've ever known the nose end of a fighter jet from your own--"

"You're not a pilot?" Agathon cuts in.

"Nope," says Jim. "Never had the flair for it. Always wanted to command, anyway, and it's hard to convince Starfleet you're stable enough to captain a starship when you're insane enough to take combat track in flight."

Adama looks amused. "Good thing I never went to the Academy, then," he says, and Kirk feels his face go slack with surprise.

"You're a-- were, I mean? Really." He hadn't expected that, and from the look on Adama's face, he's back where he started on the being-an-ass front. Small talk, he reflects, is really not his thing.

"Yeah, really," the Commander says evenly.

"Isn't your helmsman some sort of jumped-up wannabe fighter pilot?" Kara puts in.

"He _is_ a pilot," Jim tells her, "a great one." He goes on to regale them with the time Sulu had to pilot the Enterprise through the tail end of an asteroid belt to avoid a few Klingon pursuers, gratified when they all look suitably impressed.

"We should give him a test run in a Viper," Kara says, grinning. "See how he does."

"I-- are you-- I don't think so," Adama goes from amazement to disbelief to authority before Kirk's even had a chance to come up with the idea that Sulu might kiss her feet if she made him that offer.

"Galactica, Hot Dog, coming home," the voice crackles again and Kirk gives Kara an eyebrow.

"Hot Dog?" He knows next to nothing about the callsigns, how they get them or why they keep them. He knows hers is Starbuck, but he doesn't know what it means or why it's hers. He's pretty sure he can guess who gave that poor lieutenant his, though.

Her grin is proud and guilty at the same time. "He asked for it."

He rolls his eyes, smirking. "I'll bet he did."

The door behind them hisses open and the President steps in, taking up an empty spot at the table with a familiarity that both surprises Jim and doesn't. It's rare to see a civilian so comfortable at a table full of officers and their egos, but she's not used to being told no, he thinks, or at the very least doesn't care to listen to it when she does hear it.

"Captain," she says first, smiling. "Once again let me extend my sincere thanks for all you've done to help us."

He nods, grinning back. "Ma'am, it's our pleasure, really. We wouldn't leave you out here without an FTL, even if we didn't have extra reasons to stop." He'd like to keep his eyes on hers, but he can't stop them darting to Kara. Roslin seems amused by the two of them; she looks from him to her and back, and seems to come to a decision she hadn't even been planning on making.

"I'd love it if you would join me for dinner, Captain. Bring a few of your officers-- Commander Adama, Lieutenant Thrace, Captain Agathon, you'll join us too." She looks at Kirk with a wise, sweet smile. "I won't have you saving our asses without at least a proper thank you." Jim is startled into a laugh; he hadn't expected the curse, mild as it was.

"Is that a yes?" she parries instantly, and Jim composes himself. He's briefly afraid of what it'll be like to have her and Spock in the same room together, but refusing never crosses his mind.

"We'd be honored, ma'am. We'll be here." Uhura's going to love him for this, or at least she'd better.

 

He helps Gaila set up Scotty's makeshift transporter pad in the space the Colonials have cleared out of their hangar bay, and that's fun. He misses having the time to hang out with her (and the sex, too, not that he has time for that anymore either, even if he could have it with a subordinate) and it's nice to work with comfortable banter instead of the low murmurs and hyperawareness that characterize most of his shifts on the bridge. They finish up right about the time the next bunch of Vipers come back from their patrol, and they sit on a container and share a bottle of water, watching the pilots come in.

"God, they're so young," Jim mutters, watching a kid barely older than Chekov hop out of one of the planes.

"Not much younger than we were when everything went to shit for us," Gaila replies, considering, her eyes sliding sideways to meet his. Her smile is comforting. "You've got the weight of the world on your shoulders now, Jim," she says wryly, giving his shoulder an affectionate smack. "You forget you're still only twenty-seven."

She gets to her feet; he'll never get over how graceful she is, even in dusty coveralls and a ratty t-shirt. "Come on, Captain," she says, offering him a hand up. "Let's get you back so you can clean up for your fancy dinner."

He laughs, protesting, "Hey, don't make it sound like it's a dog and pony show to get me into a dress uniform for a night."

"I wouldn't know," she says, smirking as she types in coordinates on her PADD, "I only know how easy it is to get you out of it." Before he can reply, she speaks into her comm. "Gaila to Enterprise-- Captain's ready, energize."

He dematerializes, grinning and shaking his head at her cheerful little wave. He'll never stop being grateful she was on the Enterprise when Nero attacked, either.

 

They beam back a few hours later. Spock had seemed mildly surprised that far from making a nuisance of himself on board the Galactica, Jim got them invited to a dinner with the Colonials' head of state. Jim's not about to tell Spock he's expecting it to be a lot less formal than most state dinners; he figures it'll be funnier to see that play out as it happens.

They gather in the transporter room, and damn if they don't make a nice picture, he thinks-- dress uniforms suit them, gold and red and blue, and he says as much when he gets there to find the three of them there ahead of him. "Well, even if they put us to shame with hospitality, at least we're better looking." He's more gratified at Spock's barely-visible eyeroll than the chuckles from the other two, and a smirk lingers on his face as they beam over to meet their dinner dates.

It's Kara again, it would be, and Jim doesn't even try to keep his grin to himself. "Captain," she says, long suffering, reading his grin and not having any of it. Her gaze shifts to Bones and now she grins. "McCoy. Long time."

"Could've been longer," he replies, but he's grinning too. "Get in any bar fights lately, Thrace?"

She snorts. "Even if the bar on this ship was worth the name, there's no one here I haven't already gone a few rounds with. Loses a little of its allure after awhile," she says, tossing him a smug grin. Jim can almost feel Spock and Uhura exchange a look behind his back as they start walking.

After they pass two audience chambers Spock speaks up. "Where are we going?"

Kara looks back at him; she was waiting for that question. "Roslin's not like other politicians." They reach a door and she knocks, then turns the wheel and pulls it open to reveal a table set up inside the President's own quarters. Roslin's just pouring wine, Adama and the Agathons settled back into their chairs, looking up as they all enter.

She comes toward them with that warm smile. "Captain," she greets him with a handshake, and he gives up resisting and says firmly, "It's Jim, Madam President."

She squeezes his hand and replies, "Then it's Laura, Jim." She shakes everyone else's hand and ushers them to the table, takes her seat at the head and bows her head to pray.

Jim can't remember the last time he saw someone do this; since the Academy, at least, maybe not since Iowa, but here even Kara bows her head. So does Bones; Uhura doesn't, which Jim takes as a sign it's okay for him not to either.

Afterward the dish covers come off; everything is vegetarian, and Spock looks as smitten as it's possible for him to look. Jim grins to himself. The wine bottle empties, another gets opened, everyone starts to relax. Small talk buzzes, Uhura and the Agathons chatting about that game the Colonials play that's not quite basketball; Bones asking Adama about their doctor, apparently he's got quite the reputation; Spock and Roslin's voices too quiet for him to hear; and he looks up from listening to find Kara's eyes burning a hole in the center of his forehead.

"What?" he murmurs, voice low as he leans a little forward.

"Nothing," she says back, her lips curving. "Never thought to see us like this, that's all. You went and got decent on me, Jim."

He gives her a look, half a frown, half a smirk. "Don't judge a book by its cover, Kara, especially when you've already read a few of the chapters."

She rolls her eyes. "I'm killing that metaphor right here and now, kay?" She twirls her fork around a few strands of pasta. "You are different. Command does that to you." Her eyes don't stray to Adama, but they might as well have.

"You haven't seen me in command." His grin has an edge; he knows he's defensive of his position, but doesn't really care to rein it in. He's looking forward to surprising her.

"What do the colors mean?" Adama manages to cut into their conversation without raising his voice; Spock can do that too and it's annoying as hell. Jim waits just a second longer than he should to break Kara's gaze and turn to meet the Commander's. "Your uniforms," he elaborates, as if he really thinks Jim didn't understand the question.

"Science officers, medical staff included, wear blue," he explains, his voice perfectly even, "tactical officers and technicians wear red. Officers in command track wear gold."

Adama nods, his expression considering, and Kirk really doesn't know why he asked until he speaks again. "Must be nice," he comments, managing to sound both wistful and sarcastic. "Maybe some day after we haven't been at war for a few years, we'll have the leisure time to color-code our uniforms too."

For a fraction of a second he actually doesn't think Adama realizes how much that sticks in Jim's throat to swallow without the retort it deserves. His eyes don't drop from Adama's, though, and the Commander's chin tilts a scant inch to the right; he doesn't even have to smirk to get the message across. He knows, alright, and Jim's left regretting any charitable thoughts he might've had about the guy.

He counts to five while he sips his wine, and puts the glass down with smile that looks a hell of a lot easier than it is. "Starfleet's got a lot of personnel. We're all cogs in the machine, Commander, the uniforms just make it so the Admiralty doesn't have to guess which grindstone to press our noses to."

Kara snorts, her grin slanting sideways. "Yeah, and the salary is just a nice fringe benefit."

Agathon cuts in at last, gesturing with his fork between Jim and Kara. "So how exactly did you two meet?"

Their answers overlap; she's barely done saying "Too many bar brawls" before he's firing back, "Too few bedrooms." Normally he wouldn't even approach an answer like that with his dress gold on, but he's down two glasses of wine and forgot the President of the goddamn Colonies was sitting two seats away.

His face is burning right now, but Kara covers Bones's guffaw by retorting, "I don't know about that, Captain Kirk, _zero_ is such a nice, round number, don't you think?"

Spock looks like he's trying not to choke, Uhura like she wants to shake Kara's hand. Adama just looks pissed, which gratifies Jim way more than it should.

"Nah," he says finally, settling forward in his seat, glancing at Agathon with a smile full of guilty enjoyment. "We met on Earth, actually, in New York. I was on break from the Academy, she was-- well I've no idea what she was doing, but we met in a bar. She tried to pick me up, but you know, I'm just not that kind of girl," he teases over Kara's protests, and goes back to eating as the laughter simmers. Jim catches Adama's eye and gives him an eyebrow. He doesn't catch Kara doing the same to Spock.

"I'm sorry," he says to Roslin, before any of his people say it for him. "My friends do their best to muzzle me, but sometimes it doesn't work as well as others."

Roslin's laugh is musical and Jim thinks he understands a bit of the mythos now, why the Colonials would follow her anywhere, why the Admiral would give himself up to the Romulans for her. "It seems you've known Kara long enough to know she does tend to remove some of one's ability to be shocked by language," she says.

Kara looks gratified; when Jim meets her eyes he feels her foot nudge the sole of his shoe under the table.

After dinner they wander the halls of the old warship, taking their time getting back to the transport pad. Kara and Agathon, who even Jim's started to think of as Helo, walk shoulder to shoulder, comfortably volleying the tour guide responsibilities. A little tipsy, Jim hangs back, watching Bones, Uhura and Spock get the detail he and Scotty got that morning.

He watches Kara's ponytail bounce against her neck, the one loose lock at the back, her shoulder blades set under her jacket. She's eight kinds of crazy and Jim never wonders for a second if it'd last. But he likes her, she's a good friend, and he hasn't even been in a position to get laid in at least six months-- which in his estimation is way, way too long.

He does have to wonder if it'd change things. They've built a friendship around random, sporadic encounters that always toe the line of taking things a step too far-- at least that's how she makes him feel, like he's perpetually on the edge of something that could be great or could be terrible, or maybe could be both. They're both born flirts and they like that about each other; they're just alike enough to be familiar, and just different enough to stay exciting.

The trouble is, Jim knows himself enough to know he'd be able to go to bed with her and almost nothing would be different between them the next day. He can't say he knows that about Kara, and he has to wonder if she even knows it about herself.

The next morning-- for a given value of 'morning', anyway-- Jim sits down in one of the conference rooms with a stack of PADDs depicting the sector they'll be flying through, reports on every battle between Federation and Romulan ships since the Enterprise sent Nero to hell three years ago, any specs on the cylons he can get, which isn't much.

Half an hour later he's downed two cups of coffee and is thinking of asking the replicator to add whiskey to the third, when the door beeps open and Spock is standing there looking curious. "Captain," he says, and Jim waves him in.

"Thank God," he mutters, shoving a hand through his hair and using it to hold his head up when he props his elbow on the table. "This is... I don't know. Sit down. It doesn't look good."

He glances up at Spock through the fringe of his hair, absurdly glad he's here. The Vulcan sits, reaches for one of the PADDs and glances it over. "The odds are certainly not in our favor," he says quietly, like he didn't know that even before he came into the room. He glances up at Jim, unreadable as ever. "I find it interesting that this does not seem to provide you with the usual amount of excitement at the prospect of a challenge."

Jim snorts, sweeping the stack of PADDs aside and getting to his feet, pacing before the windows. "Well, this time it's a little different. This time if I-- if we can't come up with some way to make this work they're going to just run off and attempt it themselves-- they don't even have a transporter, Spock, or a shield system beyond 'park far enough away that the fighter jets will take out the bombs before they hit us'."

His voice catches, and he wishes fervently he were having this conversation with anyone else. "Kara would take a shuttle out there right now and not think twice-- if we'd said no, she'd already be gone."

Spock's voice is soft and toneless. "And you wish to prevent her from that choice."

"Yes!" he explodes, turning to face Spock with the full force of his frustration blazing in his eyes. "But it's not just her, they'd all do it, go tearing through a war zone just on the chance Adama's still alive out there."

He can't tell what's upsetting him more-- fear for his friend, for the war they might start if they actually go through with this rescue mission, or deep down, wondering if his own crew will ever love him that much. Most days the thought never crosses his mind-- he doesn't like the phrase _inspire loyalty_, like it's something that has to come from outside yourself-- he prefers to think his crew is loyal because they know he takes care of them, can count on him to be there and want him to know he can count on them for the same. And God knows he'd never ask any of them to do something like this-- risk their ship, their lives, for something he got himself into in the first place. But there's also that part of Jim Kirk that knows he's never been the most important thing in anyone's life, a part of him that would like to think maybe some day he might be.

Spock is looking at him, steady and curious, and Jim can't quite meet his eyes. He turns back to the window, irritated at his own mawkishness, at his sudden nostalgia for the sunny view of the Bay his Academy dorm room had offered, and thinks bitterly that he needs a vacation.

"I told them we'd help," he says after a moment, "and I don't know how I'm going to do it."

Spock is quiet for so long Jim almost turns to see if he's still there. Finally he says, "I have not seen you break a promise yet. I am certain you will find a way to keep this one."

He does turn then, leaning back against the window, his arms folded over his chest. "Thanks," he says, a wry little smile pulling at his face.

"I do not understand the human tendency to thank someone for expressing what is simply the truth," says Spock, his palms flat against the tabletop. "You pride yourself on your ability to bend situations to your will, Jim-- and you are quite good at it."

Jim bites his tongue over another thank you. "And what does your keen mind discern about our situation, Spock?"  
Spock considers; Jim watches him think, and for the thousandth time wishes he understood even a little bit of what goes on in his friend's head.

"It is a fine line to walk between offering assistance and becoming needlessly entangled-- and it is in your hands to find the balance between aiding your friend and fulfilling your responsibilities as Captain of this ship. It will not be easy." His eyebrow lifts slightly. "But you would not like it if it were."

Jim can't help but smile. He sits back down, letting himself meet Spock's eyes for as long as he feels like. Finally he reaches down and picks up the PADDs he brushed to the floor. "Alright, Mr. Spock. Let's see what else we can make of this."

That afternoon he's alone in his quarters when a transmission from Earth blips on his screen. He pulls it up and is mildly surprised to see it's security scrambled, straight from Admiral Barnett himself.

"Admiral," he says, sitting up a little straighter in his chair. "Thanks for getting back to me so quickly."

Barnett's expression is unreadable as ever; Kirk wonders if the man tries to look like he's carved from stone, or if it just happens naturally. "Captain Kirk. I admit I was a little surprised to get your message."

"Well, I was a little surprised to have to send it," he replies. "We ran into the Colonials by chance, but it's a damn good thing we did, or this might not have gotten to you for a few more weeks."

Barnett nods. "Our intel told us the Romulans were working on a new alliance, but we had no idea with who. I don't have to tell you how little it could take to make this turn ugly for us."

Jim shakes his head. "No sir, you don't. But that's why I think it's important we do all we can to get proof of this now, before too much time goes by."

Barnett sighs and Jim's stomach sinks. He knows by now when he's about to be told no.

"Kirk, I can't let you take the Enterprise into the Neutral Zone." There's a beat; he's waiting for an outburst, Jim realizes, and tamps down on his impulse to give one. Barnett goes on. "At least not officially. Unofficially... if there's anyone who could do this and make it out alive, it's probably you. But if your luck falls through, we can't be left holding the reins of what will surely turn into a large-scale conflict, if not all-out war."

Jim's skin is prickly with frustration. He flattens his hands against the desk, beyond grateful Barnett can't see anything but his face. "So if we end up in over our heads--"

"You'll have to swim to shore on your own... and I can't promise you a hero's welcome either. I am sorry, Kirk. You understand-- my hands are tied."

"I understand, Admiral." It's the most he can say without talking too much; he can't blurt out what's boiling on the back of his tongue, definitely can't tell his boss's boss's boss to stop being a pansy-ass and take a stand no matter what the consequences.

Maybe he senses how thin Jim's control is, but whatever the cause, Barnett lets the conversation end quickly, and seems grateful to say goodbye. Jim's barely switched off the screen before he's on his feet, heading for the transporter room. He really needs to hit someone right now, and with Spock on the bridge there's only one person he can think of who'll actually hit back.

Once Sulu heard the words _fighter jet_ used in conjunction with the Colonials, it was all he could do to wait for the end of his shift to beam over and check it out. CPO Tyrol, who everyone just calls Chief, is a little wary of people poking around his planes-- but that's okay, Hikaru thinks, he would be too if a newer faster ship with no actual combat pilots aboard just showed up and started flowing through his hangar deck like it was some sort of tourist attraction.

One girl whose name is Edmonson but everyone refers to as Racetrack starts taking him around, and after a little dedicated flirting he gets her to let him inside one of the shuttles, too. Raptors and vipers, he learns, the latter with each pilot's nickname-- _callsign_, he gets corrected immediately-- printed underneath. Hikaru knows he's a sucker for the dramatic, but he can't help finding it a little glamorous.

Inside the raptor, Racetrack swings into the pilot's seat while he perches on the tactical chair in the back, looking over all the controls, different from the Enterprise's shuttles but familiar enough that he can see the design behind them.

Chief starts yelling for Racetrack while she's in the middle of telling a story and she breaks off, torn. "I'll be right back," she says, and he holds up a hand, grinning. "I'm not going anywhere."

She jumps off the ramp and jogs over to Tyrol, and Sulu takes the opportunity to shift onto the seat behind the copilot's chair, peering out the front windshield at the deck full of planes, the bustle of people in orange jumpsuits. His imagination wanders a little, fitting him into this life, this world so different from the Enterprise in almost every way.

He never thought he'd find himself restless, wanting anything other than what he's got. He's worked hard to get to this point; helmsman on the flagship of the fleet, hero of two battles, part of a crew and a life that's anything but boring. But the past few months Hikaru's been unsettled, out of sorts-- Gaila would say just plain unhappy, but that's not really it.

He wants more. More of what, he's not sure, but interviewing for a promotion that will raise his rank and put him firmly on track toward command of his own ship seems a good place to start. He thinks he'd like that, already likes the idea of it-- it'll take a while to get there, but he's got time, another two years until reassignment, and spending it furthering his career seems better than letting it just slide by.

A woman's voice startles him from his reverie-- it's Kirk's friend Thrace, he can just see the top of her head out the side window. She's mid-conversation with someone and not sounding pleased.

"You think I don't know what I'm doing?" she asks, and just from her tone when she says it Hikaru can tell the other person must be really brave or really stupid to warrant pissing her off that bad.

"I think you're flying blind and too proud and scared to admit it." The voice is male and smug; doesn't sound familiar, and Hikaru leans in a little further between the pilot and copilot seats to see if he can make out who it is.

"Flying blind, huh? And what are you doing that's so different? I didn't hear you protesting when Starfleet kindly offered to save our asses."

"It's my job to make the best decision for this crew, Kara, unless you've forgotten--"

"How could I forget, you won't frakking shut up about it--

"--maybe if you spent less time flirting with their entire bridge crew and more time paying attention to what's actually--"

"--_what_ the frak did you just say to me? No, frak that, shut your _frakking_ mouth, Apollo," and Hikaru abruptly realizes why the man's voice is familiar, and a cold shiver goes through him at the fury in Thrace's voice.

It seems to shut Adama up too, at least long enough for Thrace to keep talking. "If you've got a bug up your ass about Kirk, take it up with him. You want to think he's only doing this because of me, that's fine, but you don't know what the frak you're talking about.

"And for the record," she goes on, and she really sounds nasty this time, "you might wanna look into that inferiority complex of yours, Lee. Green is really not your color."

She stomps off in one direction, Adama in another, and Hikaru slips back into the tactical seat just in time for Racetrack to bound back up, grinning. "Want to go for a ride?" she asks, and he abruptly forgets everything he just heard as he all but jumps into the copilot's chair.

By the time he beams over to Galactica, Kirk's had his genial everything's-fine face on for fifteen minutes, and it's starting to feel frozen there. In his head he's still half trying to make sense of it, still wondering what he's going to have to do to get the Admiralty to stop second-guessing every decision he makes. He's just hoping he doesn't run into Adama between the hangar deck and wherever Kara's stashed herself; if one more pompous asshole gets in his way before he has a chance to take out some of his aggression, he might actually do something he'll end up regretting later.

As luck would have it, Kara's already in the practice room when Jim gets there. A tech points him toward a short hallway and from the open door at the end of it he hears the steady thwack of fists against a punching bag. He goes in and there she is, flushed pink and looking pissed. "Who invited you?"

He grins. "I think it was your Commander, actually, something about a broken FTL drive?" There's another pair of gloves on a table in the corner; he strips down to his undershirt and straps them on, pulling the velcro tight across his knuckles, and steps into the middle of the room, beckoning her toward him.

Kara laughs, harsh and sweet. "You are so gonna regret this."

Jim smirks. "I used to pick fights with the biggest, ugliest aliens at the Academy for fun-- you think you've got anything I haven't seen before?"

Her first punch misses his nose by less than an inch. "Anyone ever tell you overconfidence is really unattractive on you?"

He comes at her with a left jab and then a right, warming up. "All the time. But I get hit in the head a lot, it takes a while for stuff to sink in."

Her glove connects with his gut and he grunts. "Nice." She whirls away from his roundhouse and he catches her punch straight in the kidney, groaning and shaking his head.

Her lips curve wide, her shoulders rolling back. "You done holding back yet?"

He laughs appreciatively. "Oh, getting there." He blocks her next punch, catches the one after that and slams home one of his own, eyes narrowing; the gloves are weird, he's not a boxer. He jerks his chin at her as she steps back to catch a breath.

"What do you say, the gloves come off?" She pulls them off without comment, and his fingers flex as they feel air again. "Much better," he says, grinning, and then they really go to work on each other.

He attacks, Kara blocks, attacks, he dumps her on the floor and as he drops to pin her she rolls away, kicking him in the knee, and he hops up, the next flurry of hits too fast for either of them to follow with their eyes. She licks away a trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth and Jim can't quite hide that he's watching. "Kinky, Jimmy," she taunts, and he sneers.

"_Jimmy_? What are you, my grandmother?" This time she's the one who drops him on his ass and he laughs, vaulting to his feet. "God, you're fun," he tells her, and she smirks.

"I know."

Back on his feet, he moves in quick, ends up with his arm twisted behind his back; he hooks his foot around her leg and pulls it out from under her, and they crash to the ground, rolling away wincing.

"Your crew's something else," he says, breathing hard.

"They're not mine," she replies, shaking her hair back, scrubbing her wrist across her forehead.

"Whose are they, Adama's?" The incredulity's pretty clear in his voice.

"Frak yes," she retorts instantly, then goes still, her mouth pulling to one side, and corrects herself. "Not Lee's. The old-- the admiral's."

And then Kirk's too busy blocking her hail of punches to reply; when he has a chance, he says, "Sorry if I don't have a real high opinion of the guy-- of _Lee_," he says, insolent as he can possibly sound.

"Couldn't really expect otherwise," she says. "He's not easy to like."

"Neither are you," Jim laughs, and her grin glitters dangerously.

Spock stands next to Mr. Scott as he engages the transporter to bring the captain back over from Galactica. He is not restless, will not allow himself to be restless. Rather, it is anticipation, the expectation bordering on a certainty that the captain will have a reason for having vanished off the ship, and that he, Spock, will not like it. The transporter engages and the captain materializes; Spock is less than surprised to see Kirk carrying his gold shirt, sporting a split lip and the start of a few colorful bruises.

Mr. Scott whistles. "Well Captain, I know you like to keep things exciting, but picking fights with our allies is a bridge too far, don't you think?"

Spock notes the captain deliberately does not look at him. "Just a little friendly sparring, Scotty. Mr. Spock does worse to me on a weekly basis."

"Shall I call for Doctor McCoy?" A threat that usually works at curbing his ebullience; Kirk is more cowed by McCoy than he would ever admit. It is effective, also, as a way of getting Kirk to look at him.

"Spock, I'm fine," he says, "now come on, your face is telling me we're about to have a conversation I'm not going to like, and we might as well have it while we're walking."

He heads for the door and Spock falls into step beside him. "You wanna know where I was, don't you?" Jim says, and Spock lifts one shoulder in a minute shrug.

"It appears evident now, though I admit I had not expected you to leave the ship without alerting someone to your destination."

Jim snorts. "I had to get out of here-- I just had to go hit something, and you were on the bridge, and I couldn't very well call you off just to spar with me."

Spock frowns slightly. "Something occurred that upset you, then."

"You could say that." Jim's voice is edged with frustration now; Spock waits. "I heard from Barnett."

He had not expected that to be the answer; even less had he expected the surge of dismay that follows in its wake. His jaw clenches once, unthinking, and he forces himself to relax. "And you did not deem _that_ sufficient reason to summon me from the bridge?"

Jim's eyes cut to his, bristling. "What, so I could whine to you about how short a leash they're still keeping me on?" Spock lets out a short breath, not quite impatient. He takes a moment to soothe away the tightness in his chest, dispelling the thought _Yes, you should have done exactly that_ and the frown he still wears, and finally says, "It is unimportant. What exactly did Admiral Barnett say?"

Jim lets out a restless breath. "Admiral Barnett was kind enough to inform me that we can feel free to go do the hard work fighting and getting proof of this alliance that's a huge threat to the entire Federation, but if the Romulans and cylons start to kick our asses, we're S-O-L."

More words than necessary to say _You're on your own if this goes south_, Spock thinks, and his eyebrows twitch. "I am unfamiliar with your expression."

"Shit out of luck, Spock. _Frakked_," he uses the Colonials' word ironically, shaking his head, fury crackling in his eyes as he stops and turns to face him. "This is bullshit." He searches Spock's face for a second, and whatever he sees there seems to ease some of the anger in his expression. "You think so too."

Spock hesitates only a second before nodding once in agreement. "I do find Starfleet's position somewhat problematic-- while they are understandably anxious to ensure they are not responsible for touching off an intergalactic war... you would say, and for once I would agree, they are covering their asses at our expense."

Jim grins, sharp-edged, and tongues the cut in his lip with a thoughtful grimace. "Well, it's nice to know at least if I'm signing us up to get screwed, I'm not the only one who's going to be pissed about it."

Spock refrains from pointing out that he is not angry. "Does this change your confidence in the ability of our plans to succeed?"

Jim shrugs. "I'll tell you that when we actually have plans."

The next time they meet on Galactica to talk strategy, Roslin takes them to the Admiral's quarters, nodding to the Marine outside the door as he opens the door for them. Inside it's warmly lit, the walls full of books-- Jim's reminded of his own haphazard library, and grins-- and enough papers spread out over the low table that it's plain Roslin's been working out of this room for some time.

She catches his glance and smiles, unapologetic and frank as she unfolds her glasses and slides them onto her nose. "I find I think better in here," she says, taking a seat on the leather couch and gesturing for them to follow suit.

Kara and the Commander slouch back into the cushions; this room is probably more familiar to them than any room on the Enterprise is to Jim, just by virtue of how long the Admiral's called it home. For all he loves the Enterprise, Jim wouldn't bother trying to claim he knows her well yet-- but he thinks he's getting there.

Between him and Roslin, Spock sits with his hands on his knees, half turned toward the President. He doesn't like not sitting in a chair, Jim realizes; this informality unsettles him.

"Well, Captain, as you can see we've got our work cut out for us," says Roslin, gesturing at the table.

"Yeah," Jim nods, his smile wry. "I've sort of moved into one of our conference rooms, with the same result." He leans his forearms on his knees and scans what he can see of her pages; they look a lot like the files on his PADDs, even down to how much she's written and scribbled out.

"Make any headway?" Kara asks, and Jim shrugs, glancing at Spock.

"We've been tossing ideas around... it's not going to be easy. We're going to need to send a scout party in ahead of us, just so we have visuals on what we're actually dealing with. It'll be hard to make a decision until then."

"A decision about what?" Adama asks, eyes narrowing.

"About what we're doing and how we're doing it," Jim replies evenly, sitting back up.

He's grateful when Spock adds, "It would be foolhardy to commit ourselves to any sort of plan without first knowing the stakes."

Adama's mouth compresses into a line, he's all but rolling his eyes. "From where I'm sitting it sounds like you're not even committed to helping us in the first place."

"Then you must not have been listening the past five times we've talked about this," Jim retorts. Now he's getting pissed; annoyed at Adama, and at himself for letting the man wind him up. "I said we'd help. But I'm not going to put my ship and my crew in danger without knowing everything I can about the situation first."

That, at least, the man can't argue with, but Jim's still annoyed. He turns toward the President, ignoring the penetrating glance Spock somehow manages to deliver without actually looking at him. "We have different goals, I won't pretend otherwise. We heard from Starfleet." He doesn't like admitting this, and God knows he doesn't need a reminder of the look that crossed Spock's face when Jim told him this morning, but they deserve to know.

"The Federation can't officially sanction us in this. Unofficially, we can do it if we want... but if we end up under a Romulan wrecking ball, they're not going to bail us out." He knows his face isn't as neutral as professionalism would dictate, but even with Adama there he doesn't feel like he has to be on his best behavior. "Either way they get their proof," he finishes with a shrug, leaning back, sinking into the couch a little.

"There is no logical reason why this should not turn out to our advantage," says Spock, turning toward him. Something in his face-- Jim can read it, even if he can't put a finger on what it is-- it's clear Spock is talking just to him, just about them and their ship. It settles him a little; it's a relief to know there's someone who isn't asking any more from him than what he's been doing for two years already, even if part of him bristles at the implication he should worry less about the promise he made.

"Logic isn't-- what the hell makes you think there'd be anything logical about this?" Kara butts in, and Jim could laugh. They know next to nothing about Vulcans, and he knows he probably should've explained a little.

"Logic is Mr. Spock's bread and butter," he says, sitting back upright with a grin. "He helps keep my feet on the ground." Two idioms in the space of thirty seconds; he can see the twitch to Spock's lips, slight annoyance and amusement and repression of the impulse to point out the flaws in the phrases, and he feels a little more even-keeled than he did a few seconds ago.

"Okay," he says, half a sigh, pulling a clipboard toward him. "Let's look this stuff over and see what we come up with."

Two hours later they're no closer to a plan than they were when they started. Jim and Kara stand firmly behind the need for a search party; Spock and Roslin counter they should save their resources and not risk alerting the outpost to their presence. Adama can't make up his mind.

"What are you going to do if we don't send one," Kara retorts, "just jump in guns blazing and count on the element of surprise to carry you through? That's frakking crazy."

"There might potentially exist... an easier way to assess the forces arrayed against us," Spock says, not looking up from the pages he's leafing through. "Removing the need for details of the planet's surface would increase the likelihood of a stealth mission's success by thirty percent."

"But without details of the planet--"

"We need that to get the Admiral back, you know that--"

"I am aware of that," Spock says, lifting his head at last. Roslin is silent; Spock looks at Adama, perhaps trusting reason to win through to him. "Just as Captain Kirk must consider the fate of every person on board the Enterprise, so too must you take into account the lives that might be lost in this endeavor. I realize the attachment you feel for the Admiral, but in the interest of survival--"

Kara shoots to her feet. "I can't listen to this anymore," she bites out, her face on fire. "Excuse me, ma'am, but the entire frakking point of trying to strategize is so both of us get what we want. If you're going to try and tell us we should give up on the old man because it makes some twisted sort of sense, tell it to someone else, 'cause I'm not listening."

She brushes past the guards at the door and the door shuts firmly behind her. The four remaining people in the room glance at each other, each with a different degree of awkwardness and worry in their eyes. The President breaks the silence first. "Well, gentlemen, I think that's our cue to take a break."

Adama stands. "I need to check in with CIC anyway. We were supposed to run Viper drills an hour ago..." he trails off, rubbing the heel of his hand into his eye.

Spock stands as well, and Jim looks up at him, somewhat startled. "If it is permitted, Commander, I would like to accompany you," he says. "I have heard much about your navigation and tactical systems and am quite curious to see them in person, if this is an acceptable time for a visitor."

Adama gestures toward the door. "Fine by me. After you, Mr. Spock." He nods to Roslin but doesn't give Jim more than a cursory glance on his way out the door. Jim briefly misses the time before he was captain of a starship, when he could've flipped the man off behind his back without feeling ridiculous afterward.

Roslin touches his elbow and his head swings around toward her, meeting her smile with a rueful one of his own. "Sorry," he says, meaning it. "I'm sure there's something I could be doing to get along with him better."

"Probably. But why should you? You're both smart, opinionated and used to being in charge." She takes off her glasses; Jim's starting to recognize it as her way of opening up, of telling people when she's just Laura and not Madam President. Her hands thread together as she leans her forearms on her knees, her eyes probing and earnest. Jim thinks he couldn't dissemble around her even if he wanted to.

"I really don't-- I just hope you don't think I'm still sitting on the fence," he says, a little relieved at how quickly she shakes her head.

"Gods, no, Jim. I know you won't walk away, even if the time comes when you should." Her eyes dart toward the door Adama and Spock left out of. "Your Mr. Spock seems to know it too. And even if Commander Adama doesn't understand what Spock is trying to protect you from, I do." Her smile doesn't get any less striking with time. "You're lucky to have someone you can count on like that. Both of you are."

Jim grins. "Yeah. I'd be dead a dozen times over if not for him… plus it doesn't hurt that he's great at pissing off obnoxious starship captains."

"You include yourself in that category?" she asks, lips twitching.

"Definitely," he says soberly, thrilled that he manages to get it out with a straight face, even if it lasts only a couple of seconds before they're both lost in laughter.

Spock knows his way from Galactica's CIC back to the hangar deck by now, or he thought he did-- when he turns a corner and finds himself confronted by a wall of photographs, he knows he has made a wrong turn. Still, his interest is piqued, and he moves forward along the hallway, though his skin is beginning to prickle as he starts to realize what he is looking at.

Then he rounds the corner and sees the wall stretch out before him, a hundred thousand faces grinning out at him from well-loved pictures, notes and tokens and candles still burning prayers to their gods.

Spock does not move at all for several moments, battling the urge to turn around and ask for directions. But he should not shy away from this, he knows, and so he walks down the corridor, slow, as if in a trance.

He pauses before one photo, a young woman with coffee-colored skin and curly hair, dressed in a flight suit, helmet tucked proudly under her arm. Beside her, the pictures' edges barely overlapping, a dark-haired man is caught in motion, the pyramid ball just about to leave his hand, his face tense with focus and fierce joy.

"Didn't know it was this many, did you." The voice behind him is matter of fact, but the edges are razor-sharp.

He turns. "Lieutenant Thrace."

She levers herself off the crate she's been sitting on and comes to lean on the wall beside him, her eyes on his face, not the photos. "This is what happens when the cylons decide to frak with you," she says, her voice full of defensive anger. "And you expect us to cut our losses?"

Spock's eyebrow lifts. "It is hardly logical to risk your ship and your entire crew for one man, no matter how high his rank--"

Her snort cuts him off. "You think this is about him being the Admiral? This is about him being family." Spock (wisely, he thinks) remains silent. "You don't leave your family behind."

She is accusing him; he hears himself answer and thinks perhaps he is not as detached as he ought to be. "No, Lieutenant, you are correct on that score." His throat works convulsively as he swallows once, bone dry. "I-- apologize if I gave the impression-- it was not my intention."

He knows he didn't finish the first part of that sentence, but he's finding it difficult to revisit. Thrace's expression draws inward, confused and somewhat startled, and Spock feels it's necessary to explain-- as tersely as he can, but explain nonetheless. "You are not the only people orphaned by violence," he grits out. "The Romulans-- they destroyed my homeworld."

Now she is simply stunned into silence, perhaps at the fact of what he has told her, perhaps at the uncharacteristic roughness of his voice. The wound is not healed, and it might not ever be.

"Frak," she whispers, and for some reason-- for no reason-- it breaks the tension.

"Indeed," Spock says, mouth twisting wryly.

"I'll thank your captain with a boot in the ass later," she says, offering the ghost of a smile. "He could've mentioned--"

"It is not the captain's story to tell," he interrupts her, sounding certain. He does not add that it is rare they come across a people unaware of Vulcan's demise, rare enough that it almost never comes up.

Thrace heaves in a breath, lets it out in a rush. "You're surprisingly calm about-- well. Everything."

He allows a small smirk. "He truly did tell you nothing, did he?"

She glares, but this time it's almost good natured. "I'm getting that picture, yeah."

Spock is spared further reply by his communicator beeping. "Kirk to Spock. Ready to beam back?"

"I am on my way, Captain, I will see you in the hangar deck shortly," he replies.

Thrace looks slightly bemused. "Run along," she says, motioning back in the direction from which he had come. "First left, take C corridor all the way down."

Spock dips his head in a deep nod. "Thank you, Lieutenant, for--"

She cuts him off. "Call me Starbuck," she says, "or just Kara. You know Jim," she adds with a smirk. "We'll be friends before this is out or he won't be able to call it a success."

Spock nods again, feeling his lips curl up on one side in acknowledgement. "Indeed." He pauses, then attempts once more to say what he had begun a moment before. "You have my thanks, Kara... for hearing me out, even if you do not agree with my assessment."

"Yeah," she says, shrugging one shoulder. "Least I can do, I guess. And... thanks for telling me." He does not have to ask what she means.

He follows where she pointed and as he rounds the corner, he looks back once more, in time to see Thrace's hand stray to the photo of the man with the pyramid ball. A fond touch, just at the corner, and then she turns on her heel and heads down the hall.

It seems ridiculous to Jim to go about his daily routine when nothing about what they're doing right now is normal. Still, he shows up for gamma shift on the bridge the next day early like he always does, grinning at Spock as he brushes past him to hover over Chekov where he's standing in front of the readouts of the sector. "How's it looking?"

Chekov glances back, his forehead puckering. "Difficult, Captain," he says with a shrug. "These maps are wague at best, plotting a course through this sector at warp will present some--" he pauses-- "interesting challenges."

Kirk looks doubtful. "Interesting like 'didn't know the ship could do that', or interesting like 'oh God, oh God, we're all gonna die'?"

Chekov's face scrunches up. "I can't say just yet, sir."

Over Chekov's shoulder he sees Spock listening in with a tight-lipped expression that reads like horror. Jim grins and claps Chekov on the shoulder. "Well at least it won't be boring."

He heads over to where Uhura's poring over a block of text on her console. "What's this?"

She barely glances up, used to him sneaking up on her by now. "Text of a transmission picked up between two cylon base stars by a Colonial ship-- it's strange, Captain, it's Standard, but I have no idea what it means."

"How so?" She backs her chair up enough for him to get a look at her console. "See for yourself."

He scans it, his eyebrows going up. "Is it... it's code, right? Either that or... I want to smoke what they're smoking," he mutters, shaking his head. He can't help grinning a little, and Uhura looks grateful for the excuse to join in.

"It's like a zen meditation... I tried to treat it as a code at first, but it doesn't follow any of the traditional forms, and the structure is all wrong..."

"Yeah," Jim replies flatly, "plus it doesn't make any damn sense." He thinks for a moment, drumming his fingers on the back of her chair, then beckons toward her earpiece. "You've got the audio too?"

"Not of this particular transmission, but another similar one, yes." She passes him the earpiece and calls up the log on her console as he tucks it into his ear.

What he hears is nothing like he expected; the voice is female, distant and cool, the words rolling out of her like she's reading from a book. _Sphere. Arc through the carbon and oxygen molecules, calculate the distance, the angle, and thrust. Pivot. One. Nine. Eight. Nothing. Increase atmospheric oxygen by 0.07%. Pressure stable. Burn cycle complete. Resume function. End of line. The weary spirit cannot withstand fate. Spins and turns, angles and arc, burn, a perfect thought. Three hundred sixty degrees. End of line._

"We'll have to see what the Colonials can do with that," Jim says, disgusted, unhooking the earpiece after a minute of listening in stunned silence. "Do you think it's important?"

Uhura considers. "It could be. I'll need to speak with their communications expert before I know more."

Jim nods. "Sooner would be better than later?" She nods back and he jerks his head toward the turbolift. "Get someone over here, talk to whoever you have to talk to and get back to me with some answers."

She nods. "Soon as I can, Captain." She flashes a smile as she walks off. Jim isn't sure when she stopped saying _Captain_ like it was a swear word, but it's nice not to have to wonder if she's secretly wishing she could kick him in the shins.

Spock stands with Nyota in the transporter room, waiting for the Colonials' communications expert to beam over. She stands serene with her hands folded behind her back; Spock is surprised to find he is the one ill at ease with their silence. Finally he breaks it. "Do you know who they are sending to converse with you?"

She shakes her head. "No idea. Adama only said there wasn't anyone better in the quadrant... I guess he'd know."  
Spock nods but doesn't reply. He is restless not at the stiffness between them, he realizes, but at the prospect of unraveling a thread of the tangled mess their situation had become. There is so little about this that he is comfortable with.

The communicator crackles; Spock cannot understand why the Colonials' signal seems perpetually poor. It is a woman's voice on the other side. "Ready to beam-- _two_ ready to beam over... whenever you're ready." Mr. Scott keys up the transporter and the two figures materialize; it is Lieutenant Agathon and her husband, the XO.

Spock gives them both a grave nod, but Nyota steps forward with a smile. "Welcome back," she says, shaking both their hands again. "Thanks for coming over-- I'm looking forward to getting to the bottom of this."

Lieutenant Agathon's smile is tight and strained; she is nervous, Spock sees, almost afraid, and her husband mirrors the emotion. For the moment, Spock remains silent, letting Nyota lead both their conversation and their direction. She chats amiably, scarcely seeming to notice that the Colonials are barely participating in the conversation. But Spock knows she is perceptive; likely her continued talk is meant to draw out the reason for their silence.

They reach the conference room and Spock sits in the middle of the table as Nyota takes the head. The Agathons sit beside each other, and it is the Lieutenant who speaks first, her hands pressed flat to the table. "I'm here because I want to be," she says, "but even if I didn't, I wouldn't really have a choice. This... there's not really anyone else who can help you, and even I'm not sure how much help I'll be."

"Anything is better than nothing," Nyota says, matter-of-fact.

The Agathons share a look, and the Lieutenant sighs, beckoning toward the stack of padds. "Alright. What can I do for you?"  
Nyota first gives her the padd with the transmission text on it, and Agathon scans it with a look of growing unease.

"Where did you pick this up from?"

"On the subspace frequencies around the base. Does it mean anything to you?"

"It's a hybrid," she murmurs, half to herself. "The cylons use them to pilot their ships, they're a different model from the centurions or-- or any of the other models." She seems to have corrected herself mid-sentence, and Spock is almost as curious to know what she is not saying as he is to understand more about what she is.

Nyota shifts her chair closer to Lieutenant Agathon's; they sit on perpendicular sides of the table but their heads are bent close together, and the tension is gradually seeping out of Agathon's posture. "And what she's saying-- is it a code? Here and here... and here again, she says 'end of line', and I thought of programming code, how-- correct me if I'm wrong, programming isn't my forte," Nyota says with a quick smile at Spock, "but every line of code has to be closed, ended, right?"

Agathon's mouth twists to the side, thoughtful. "It's sort of like that-- I mean I think, I don't-- don't actually know enough about them to know for sure."

Nyota is off again with another set of questions, and Spock listens as the two lieutenants trade information and questions. Agathon seems to be something of an expert on cylon technology; there is almost no question Nyota asks that she cannot answer, and in time Spock begins to wonder why, and then to guess at possible answers. After fifteen minutes' contemplation he concludes there is only one answer that makes much sense.

When there is a pause in the conversation he breaks in. "Lieutenant, I apologize in advance if my question causes offense, but I must ask. How is it you come to know so much about cylon technology?" He reads the answer in the flicker of uncertainty that crosses her expression, and knows what she will say even before she reaches into her folder and takes out the photos of the cylons' bases on Caprica and Picon, manned by tall blond women and dark-skinned men, and copy upon copy upon copy of herself.

"Because I am one," says Sharon Agathon, who the Colonials have named Athena. Spock cannot see her hand under the table, but the set of her shoulder and her husband's suggests they are holding onto each other with some degree of force.

Another hour later they have heard her story, the captain has been called down so she may tell it again, and Spock fixes his gaze on the table between his hands as Kirk paces the room. When Lieutenant Agathon falls silent at last, Kirk braces both hands on the table and looks frankly at the Colonials, whose expressions are hard with defiant fear-- fear of what Jim and his crew might think, of what they might do-- but it is not _them_, Spock realizes, not the Enterprise's crew they fear, but the long shadow of prejudice and hate in which they have lived for, apparently, quite some time.

"Thank you for telling us," says Jim. "That can't have been easy... I'm guessing you haven't always gotten such a warm reception from your people."

A measure of tension leaves the XO's shoulders and he nods. "You could say that." He means that to imply that Jim's assessment is an understatement; Spock can understand how that might be true. The reaction to their marriage must be akin to that of a Vulcan committing to a relationship with a Romulan, he thinks, his stomach turning faintly at the thought.

Jim's voice brings him back to reality. "You're welcome on this ship anytime, both of you."

Captain Agathon nearly smiles. "Thank you sir. That means a lot."

Jim does grin back at him. "No problem." Then he gestures to the folders and papers and photographs spread out on the table between the four of them and holds up his hands, palm out. "Don't let me keep you."

He claps Spock on the shoulder on his way out; even through his shirt, the touch faintly radiates pride, determination, annoyance, satisfaction, the immediacy of Jim's thoughts a jumble that leaves Spock momentarily rattled, like putting one's hand into water expecting it to be hot, and finding it ice cold.


	2. rise bloody, maybe not too late

Jim's starting to feel like he's crawling out of his skin, and it's all Kara's fault. She distracts him, probably on purpose, and he understands she can't help it because all too often he can't either. It's fascination with a masochistic bent, poking every sore spot she can find until something or someone snaps back. He just can't avoid her no matter how hard he tries-- can't avoid her, but can't pin her down. Everywhere he goes, she's in his way, except when he wants to find her in which case she's just on her way out. It's maddening, which he knows she knows, and only makes her go to new lengths to aggravate the hell out of him.

The scout ship was supposed to return to Galactica today, but last he heard it hadn't come back yet. Could be it was just late; could be bad news for all of them. Jim decides he's not going to ask questions. When they know something, he'll know something; one of the perks of being Captain, he supposes, is a certainty that important stuff won't go on without you knowing about it.

They all got invited to come on over to the bar on Galactica and join the pilots for that card game they play, the one that's like poker only weirder. Jim, Bones, Gaila, Chekov and Sulu end up being the only ones who go-- Uhura's no good at cards, she swears, and Scotty says kindly but firmly that not even the monsters of Delta Vega could keep him from sleeping the next twelve hours straight. Spock looks surprised when Jim asks him if he's going; he even pretends to consider it for a second before reminding Jim he has the bridge for Gamma shift and is therefore unable to attend.

As the hangar deck materializes around them, the first thing Jim sees is the stealth ship, the Blackbird named after the President, getting rolled away by a handful of techs while Tyrol stands by with a frown creasing his face. Jim tells the others to wait a second and jogs over to the man, nodding at the ship. "How long?" he asks.

Tyrol just looks at him for a moment before answering. "Couple hours ago."

"They find anything?" Okay, maybe he'll ask one question. It's not likely whoever was piloting this thing would've climbed out of the cockpit blurting out classified information, but he could at least get an idea of what to expect.

The Chief shrugs. "I don't know. Seelix looked... I don't know. She called CIC to tell Starbuck and the Commander she needed to see 'em right away. I'm guessing that means it wasn't exactly good news."

Jim nods and thanks him, going slow as he ambles back over to his friends so he can give himself time to stop looking worried. They're there to have fun, and that's what he's going to do. It's like his mom used to say; let tomorrow worry about itself.

It's a good time, but then Jim wasn't expecting anything less. He and Bones don't play; they claim it's 'cause they don't want to fleece their junior officers of their hard-earned money, but really they just have more fun being the peanut gallery. Bones has a cigar and a bottle of bourbon, and Jim's got his feet up on an adjacent chair, watching the action with a satisfied grin.

It feels right somehow, seeing them all together like this. No one's in uniform so the only way to tell one crew from another is to look for the dull glint of a ball chain at the Colonials' necks, and Jim thinks briefly that this is what exploring the galaxy is really about; finding what brings people together instead of what splits them apart.

"You need to drink more," Bones declares, maybe sensing he's thinking too hard, maybe just wanting to make sure Jim's no more sober than he is. None of them are exactly abstaining; Chekov brought his own vodka, the purist, but he's not shy about sharing. Jim just barely prevents him and Kara from abandoning the game in favor of a drinking contest; he can tell she's impressed with Chekov's guts, even if she can't quite believe she's getting matched drink for drink by this skinny kid with the funny accent.

"Raise you tventy," he says, tossing more money on the pile, and Jim hides a grin into his glass. This is their fourth game, and he can't help being proud of how they're holding their own. Hot Dog, at least, definitely expected to have an easier time fleecing them of their credits, but Kara just seems glad of the challenge. There's an edge to her grin, a roughness in her voice that he thinks probably only he and Helo might notice. He wonders again about the Blackbird.

"I'm out," Sulu says, shaking his head and folding. Hot Dog considers, then slides his coins into the middle of the table; Jim tosses Bones a weighted glance that means _He's gonna regret that,_ to which the doctor rolls his eyes and shrugs one shoulder, which means _Yeah, you gonna stop him?_

"You're full of it, Pavel," says Gaila cheerfully, adding her money in too. "You've done this to me before, and I'll be damned if I fold when you've got a hand full of nothing."

"Infuriatin', isn't it," Bones agrees; his accent's stronger when he drinks, and he talks more, and Jim spends a second kicking himself for not inviting Chapel along to appreciate. He nudges his glass over toward the bottle, and Bones pours him a little more.

Kara snorts, her eyes straying to Gaila before going back to her cards. "Someone likes to play the butter-wouldn't-melt-in-his-mouth card, huh?" The green skin thing is still new to the Colonials; Jim's seen some of them do triple takes before (whoa, she's green-- whoa, she's green and _hot_!) and he laughs every time.

"I do not," Chekov protests, "I just have a good poker face. It is not misdirection to be good at the game."

"He's got you there, Gaila," Jim chuckles, though in this case he's pretty sure she's right and the other guy's got nothing.

"It also doesn't hurt that no one expects to get beat at poker by someone barely old enough to drive," Bones chips in snidely, and Jim swallows a guffaw as Chekov protests that he drives the Enterprise every day, and everyone ignores him.

Helo and Hot Dog fold, but Athena stays in; they go around upping the ante again before it's down to Sulu, Chekov and Kara, who glare at each other suspiciously.

Jim whistles a low trill, the soundtrack to every shootout in every old Western he's ever seen, and now all three of them are glaring at him and Bones is coughing 'cause he just snorted bourbon up his nose. Jim's smirk is just for Kara, though, and her eyes cut back to her cards rather that meet his.

"Okay, let's see 'em," she says finally, and as they lay their cards out everyone else leans over eagerly to see who's the winner.

Gaila crows and smacks her hand down on the table. "I knew you had nothing!" Chekov just grins, and Jim hears him mutter, "You still folded first," even as Sulu's cursing his luck. He had good cards; Kara's were just better.

She does a little dance with her shoulders and head bopping as she reaches into the middle of the table, raking her winnings toward her, the end of her little cigar held tight in her teeth. "It's okay, guys, don't feel too bad. You play with a master, you gotta expect to get taken for all you're worth." The other pilots boo and hiss, everyone laughing.

As the game breaks up Jim tells Bones not to wait for him and joins her (follows her, really) and asks to bum one of those skinny cigars she smokes.

"You don't smoke," she says, which isn't no, but it's not yes either.

"Except when the situation calls for it," he counters. "You know, narrowly avoiding death, really good sex, watching my crew lose half a week's pay to a card game I barely know the rules to just in an attempt to get a real conversation out of you..." he trails off, sliding her a sideways grin.

She rolls her eyes, lights a smoke and passes it to him, lights one of her own. They walk in silence for a minute. Every time she glances at him he's already looking back, and finally she mutters, "You don't know when to quit, do you."

He catches her hand, turns her toward him with just inches between them; she doesn't pull away, and he tells her seriously, "Don't talk to me about quitting when I haven't even started yet."

The look she gives him is sharp but open; he thinks he gets where she's at right now, and the only way he knows how to show her starts by kissing her, so he does. It's better than words, he thinks Kara will agree, and since she doesn't push him away or punch him he figures he was right. Her hand curls into a fistful of his shirt, and he thinks they'd probably better get somewhere more private than a corridor, and fast.

"Come on," he murmurs against her neck, "let's get out of here."

"Yeah," she breathes back, tucking one finger into his belt loop and giving a short tug, yanking him close enough for another hot openmouthed kiss, her teeth on his jaw, and then she turns and strides away, leaving Jim to jog behind her to keep up. The pilots' barracks are two corridors away, and she's barely locked the door behind them before he's got her pressed up against it, his hands under the hem of her shirt, the weight of his body settled comfortably against her.

"You sure about this?" he breathes, grinning down at Kara as her fingers work the buttons on his shirt. She gives him an incredulous smirk, and Jim laughs low. "Just checking you wouldn't rather smack me around the ring for a while instead."

"Nah," she says, hands sliding slow down his arms as she pushes his shirt off, her eyes drinking in the sight of him even though her voice hasn't lost an ounce of its bite. "I'm not in the mood to kick your ass right now."

"Oh, I see," he snorts, stepping back and pulling her with him, his fingers dipping below the top of her pants to brush the skin beneath. He's not making any move to take off her shirt; she gets the hint and yanks it up herself, humming approval as his hands slide up her sides. Her skin is smooth under his palms, and he traces the ink on her inner forearm, a low chuckle in the back of his throat as she shivers. "Don't try to play it cool," he warns, putting his back against the wall next to one of the bunks and jerking her flush against him; she makes this sound, this involuntary little gasp that slides liquid-hot straight to his dick, and he finds he's biting his lip over a growl.

"Yeah, you either," she teases, yanking off her bra and shaking her hair back with a defiant grin, already working at his belt buckle, and Jim moves without thinking, turning and slamming her back against the wall, one hand pinning her wrists above her head. "Damn, Kara," he murmurs, his free hand hard under her chin, tilting her head back so he can nibble on her neck, loving the way she shudders and writhes as he bites his way toward her collarbone. His hand drops from her chin and trails slowly down the pale expanse of her skin, pointedly avoiding the way she arches her breasts toward his hand. His hand stills and flattens against her ribs as he busily sucks a hickey into her neck, hands and hips pinning her right where she is. "Frak," she grits out, "gods, frak, Jim, don't frakking play around."

"What, prolonging the agony suddenly lost its luster?" Jim laughs quick and smug, his nose barely brushing hers, jerking back as she tries to lunge up for a kiss.

"Asshole," she spits, failing to conceal how she melts a little more when he grinds his hips against hers.

"You love it," he breathes, eyes boring down into hers. "You want to spar like this instead of in the gym, that's fine by me, but I'm still not letting you win."

She smirks, dark and inviting. "Not going down without a fight, huh?" His laugh dissolves into a soft moan as she slips one hand free and pops the button on his jeans, dragging her thumb down the length of the zipper before sliding it open.

"Fuck," he hisses, "Kara--" She silences him with her mouth, insistent and demanding as her hands shoving down his jeans, grabbing his ass with both hands and pulling him hard against her. He breaks away when his lungs begin to ache, gasping as he toes off his shoes and shucks his jeans aside. Kara beckons him back, but he grabs her by the hips and swings, tossing her onto the table in the middle of the room like she weighs nothing at all. Jim bends her down with a bruising kiss, hand on her throat, and her breath hisses as her shoulders and back press against the cool metal. Eyes dark, lips parted, he unzips her boots and lets them drop, hooks his fingers through pants and underwear and yanks everything off.

Jim's fingers dig into her hipbones as he jerks her back toward him, legs splayed, each foot finding purchase on a chair to either side of him. He studies her for a moment; the room's harsh light is unforgiving, but she's gorgeous, pale curves and lithe muscle. Kara's hands move to curl lightly over his. "Not that this isn't a lovely moment," she says low and mocking, "but would you frakking get on with it?"

He does. On the table, thanking her gods and his that it's bolted to the floor, a tiny part of him wondering what the hell he's doing, the rest of him way too far gone to care. Her heel digs deep into the back of his thigh, her neck arched back, lips pressed tight over sounds that keen low in her throat, and when she feels him speed up and his breath start to stutter she lets go and moans, nails raking his back. He's barely recovered when she draws him into one of the beds and pushes him down between her legs, and his hands wrap tight around her hips, her fingers clenching tight in his hair as she falls apart around him.

Afterward he catches his breath against her shoulder, fit snug between her and the wall. He catches sight of a photo on the wall, Kara and Helo and Sharon in their flight suits, and chuckles softly.

"What?" she asks, lazy and redolent.

"This is your bunk." He hadn't thought to care, before, but he's conscious enough now to be glad they didn't just fuck each other silly in someone else's bed.

She laughs low, one hand carding absently through his hair. "Yeah. Lucky it was the closest one."

His hand slips from her waist and he shifts to lie sort of on his back, grinning up at the ceiling. "If this is what happens when you win at cards, I can't wait for what's coming after we blow the hell out of those cylons."

She doesn't say anything, but her breath catches a fraction before she lets it out; he wouldn't have heard it if he weren't this close. "I was just kidding," he protests, going up on his elbow, not wanting her to think there were strings attached to this that he didn't warn her about.

"No, it's not that," she dismisses with a little frown.

"Then what?" he's not going to let this go, not now he's seen the look of annoyed vulnerability on her face.

"You really think we're gonna make it out of there in one piece?" she asks, her voice so soft he has to lean in to be sure he's heard her right.

"Yeah," he says slowly, "I do."

She reaches down into the drawer beneath the mattress and pulls out a cigar, offers him one. He takes it, she lights them both, and they smoke in silence for a minute. Jim lets her work through it, waits for her to reply. "I don't think I will," she says as she exhales.

He almost has to try and remember what he'd said before that she's replying to; when he does, he frowns and struggles up on his elbow again. "What? Why the hell not?"

Her lips, still swollen from kissing him, slant to one side and she shrugs. "It'll take a lot of crazy to pull this off."

Jim shakes his head a little. "I know crazy, okay. There'll be risks, but we'll get it done."

She shakes her head right back, impatient and almost exasperated. "Sure, okay, whatever you say."

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"Just what I said the other night, Jim. You're in command now, you don't go into shit like this wondering if today is going to be the day you don't come home. I don't wonder-- I tell myself that every time I get in the cockpit." She takes another drag on her stogey and blows a smoke ring in his face. Her voice isn't cheerful and isn't despondent; it's calm, matter of fact, but laden with an undercurrent of something Jim can't decipher. He knows he's lucky to be getting this much out of her, but it doesn't stop him wanting more. She takes a breath, in and out, and adds, "It's gonna happen to me sooner or later and this, right here, this mission to get the old man back? I can't think of a better reason to get myself killed."

She slides away from him before he can reply, gathering up their clothes, pulling on her underwear. As she tugs her bra over her head, she turns with a light smile. "At least if I kick it you'll still be able to check frakking me off your to-do list."

Jim's up on his feet before he even realizes it, crowding her against the table, never more grateful to be taller and broader. "Don't ever say anything like that to me again, Kara," he says, his voice low. "You're a friend-- one of the best. And if you think 'cause I slept with you I wouldn't mourn you if you were gone, then you really don't know me."

Something passes across Kara's face, a twitch of the eyebrows and lips that suddenly, viscerally reminds him of the expression Spock makes when he's trying to suppress something. "Okay, Jim," she murmurs, forcing another smile. She reaches up to his face, presses her palm to one cheek and her lips to the other, then slips away patting the pile of his clothes. "It's getting late."

"Yeah." What else is Jim supposed to say to that? His chin drops and he starts pulling on his clothes while he hears Kara moving around behind him.

He does up the last button on his shirt and turns, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her into a hard kiss. "You're an idiot," he mutters against her lips, hands framing her face. "I'll see you tomorrow." She's still standing there, one hand pressed to her mouth, when he pulls the door shut behind him.

 

Spock still has the bridge when he gets back to the ship-- which means there's no way Jim's heading up there. Gamma shift's two hours from done and he couldn't sleep if he tried, so he goes to Sickbay; it's fifty-fifty Bones is still awake, and he's not about to begrudge Jim a drink no matter what time it is. Turns out he was on the wrong side of the coin toss; McCoy is asleep in his chair, feet up on the open drawer of his desk, half-full cup of coffee still sitting next to his hand.

"Sleeping on the job?" Jim says softly, and Bones starts awake, glaring, "Dammit, Jim," and Kirk takes the chair opposite his friend's, laughing.

"You're working too hard," he observes, as if it's a new thing.

"No I'm not," and that's hardly new either. "You see anyone else qualified to clean up after your ongoing circus over here?" Kirk shifts, Kara's words still echo in his mind (_can't think of a better reason to get myself killed_) and he isn't so sure anymore what to think of what they've gotten themselves into.

"You have that look," Bones says, and Jim grimaces.

"The lean and hungry one?" he says, almost hopeful.

"No, Cassius, don't get smart. I mean the 'I got laid and am overthinking everything' look."

Jim looks startled, then bursts out laughing, appreciating the fact that he's been caught out as much as McCoy is. "God, Bones, what would I do without you?"

"Die in a ditch on some backwater planet, entirely unaware of what an idiot you are," he replies acidly. A beat, then, "She finally let up, huh?"

Jim shakes his head. "Not for a second," he says, grinning.

Bones looks wry. "I'm sorry I asked."

His head tips sideways and he looks at McCoy with a serious expression. "I'm not, you know. Overthinking. Not about her."

McCoy doesn't reply. Jim doesn't elaborate, doesn't mention the reason he came here instead of the bridge, doesn't try telling his best friend what's on his mind. It's only the whisper of a thought to begin with, and so out of the blue he wouldn't know how to explain it if he tried. He's never felt like this before, and doesn't know what to do with it now that it's got him by the throat.

Bones sees something in his face and looks like he's going to call him on it; Jim gets up too fast and shrugs with a broad grin. "Well, go get some rest in your own damn bed, will you, I don't want the Colonials saying I'm a slave driver."

McCoy knows Kirk too well. "Go to bed yourself, Jim. You're gonna need your rest." He doesn't get up til Jim's already out the door.

 

Jim doesn't go to bed. He changes his clothes and lies on his bed staring at the ceiling for a while. He's not tired; he's exhausted, his mind's a blank, but he can't make it quiet down. Kara's face is vivid when he shuts his eyes, her sharp smile, her clear eyes and the conviction in her voice, _it's going to happen to me sooner or later._ And the saddest part is, he'd believed her. She'd removed his ability to argue or even think about it much, but it's stuck with him and now it's making him-- well, he doesn't have a name for the feeling, but he doesn't like it.

He gets up abruptly and leaves his quarters, heading for deck three and the chessboard. He can play even if he doesn't have an opponent; and given the trouncing he got last week, he could use the practice.

He thinks maybe he shouldn't be surprised to see Spock already sitting there staring at the pieces, already set up to play.   
Jim drops into the chair across from Spock's and says, "It was my turn to be white. But I guess since I'm late, you can have it."

Spock starts (which shouldn't gratify Jim as much as it does), and drops the rook he'd been running between his thumb and forefinger. "Captain-- Jim," he corrects himself automatically by now, got sick of Kirk doing it or something. "It is very late."

"Couldn't sleep," he shrugs off the awkward truth. "Figured I'd play myself, maybe see which half of my brain is smarter, but I see you beat me to it." His eyes skate up to Spock's; it's a second more before he cracks a bit of a smile, nodding toward the board. "You wanna?"

Spock nods once. "That would be acceptable."

Jim rolls his eyes. "Try to make it sound a little less like I bribed you into playing," he suggests, gesturing for Spock to make the first move. The Vulcan's pale fingers hover beside the board for a moment; then he moves, Kirk counters, and they play in silence for minutes that stretch out til only the chess pieces serve to remind Jim how long he's been there.

"When you did not return to the ship with Mr. Sulu I did not expect to see you until tomorrow." His voice is deceptively smooth, but Jim knows by now when Spock's spent a few minutes figuring out how to phrase a question like it's not one.

"And most people who work gamma shift pass out in their quarters right afterward," Jim points out, not bothering to look up from the board. Spock's not the only one who can be a cagey bastard when he wants to be.

"Your point?"

"What's yours?" Now their eyes do meet, Jim's blazing with confrontation, Spock's containing a barely leashed energy that almost makes him shiver.

Incredibly, the Vulcan breaks first, returning to gaze at the board in contemplation. Jim snorts. "I can't believe you blinked rather than answer the damn question."

"I blink approximately fifteen times per minute, as do you," Spock replies, and Jim all but cackles.

"It's an expression, Spock, as I'm sure you're aware. In a staring contest, whoever blinks first loses."

"Typical of you to view an exchange of questions as a competition with a winner and loser."

"And equally typical of you to talk in circles around the thing you want like hell to avoid." [Jim's hand catches Spock's wrist midair](http://i891.photobucket.com/albums/ac115/laulaisin/chess.jpg), and Spock goes still, his glare full of ire, a warning if Kirk chooses to heed it. "Ask your damn question, if you want to know so bad," he says, barely above a whisper.

"It is unimportant," Spock says at length. "I-- I apologize if it seemed I was attempting to provoke you." He gently but firmly shakes Kirk's hand off his wrist, and Jim settles back in his chair with a little sigh, shaking his head.

It should gratify him that he wins, but Spock's distraction means he wasn't really trying, which takes half the fun out of it.

Jim sleeps fitfully for a few hours, three or four at most, then gets back up, showers and heads to the mess for a bucket of coffee and the closest thing to a real breakfast the replicator can give him. Spock appears beside the table when he's halfway through his eggs, and Jim glances up, nodding at the empty chair.

"Morning." His voice is something of a growl, and Spock gives him the eyebrow as he sits.

"Indeed," he says, "it is, and apparently not a very good one."

"Maybe you can function on three hours' sleep and a cup of tea, but some people need more than the bare minimum to get by," he replies irritably.

Spock only goes back to peeling his grapefruit, unperturbed. "I would advise against increasing the amount of stimulants in your system, Captain," he adds as Jim gets up with his empty coffee cup in hand.

"Advice noted, Commander," Kirk replies, and keeps on walking toward the replicator. Spock doesn't move, but Jim knows he's rolling his eyes on the inside.

Jim's glad, later, that the Colonials are coming to the Enterprise today-- he's pretty sure being back on Galactica would keep his mind more on what happened last night than he can afford it to be when he's trying to strategize. He does a good job not looking at Kara when they beam over, and an even better job sounding casual when he tells Adama yeah, he had a good time last night, and no, the pilots didn't clean them out too badly.

Roslin takes her place at the head of the table and pours herself a cup of tea from the pot the replicator gave her. "Gentleman, let's get down to business," she says, and everyone quiets down.

Spock switches on the viewscreen at the front of the room and a scan of the planet's surface appears, the terrain dotted with small silver shapes, a squat brown building, a few other fuzzy blobs Jim can't quite make out.

"The data from your scouting party show the outpost is guarded by a squadron of fifty cylon centurion models," says Spock; Jim thinks briefly you'd never know he had no idea what a cylon was until a week ago. "This in and of itself is problematic, but in order to get to the base we must get past the Romulan warbirds waiting in orbit."

Kara's stylus taps against the table. "We'll have to take them out before they can let the cylons know we're there," she says. "If that base star shows up we might as well not even waste the ammo fighting back."

"How many warbirds?" Jim asks, doing a few mental calculations, finding he's actually afraid of the answer.

"Seven at least," says Adama, and Jim's stomach does a little flip. "Might be more with time, there's really no way to tell."

"That's too many for us to take on our own... right?" Agathon asks, and Spock nods.

"Even between the Galactica and the Enterprise, the probability of disabling the warbirds before one of them is able to contact their cylon allies is virtually nonexistent."

"Well couldn't we do something to jam their communicators?" Jim asks, suddenly sitting forward in his chair. "Send out a signal or something to mess with their channels?"

"A disruption of that nature would disable our own communications as well," Spock points out, "even were we able to manufacture a device that would work to that effect."

"Sure, but how bad would we need them? The Vipers work on old wireless transmitters, they wouldn't be affected, and we don't need to talk to anyone while we're blasting those warbirds to hell."

"You-- I see," Spock suddenly seems to realize where Jim got the idea, and his mouth snaps shut. "The drill."

"Yeah," he admits, one shoulder hitching a little. "If we could-- I don't know, alter one of our phaser arrays to emit a beacon like that-- we'd burn energy way faster, but if it was enough to knock out those birds--"

"And Galactica's got enough nukes to take 'em out pretty quick, if they don't destroy the missiles midair," Kara puts in, "plus if we jump in close enough, the Vipers could take out a few of their guns-- phasers, whatever-- before they get a chance to fire on us."

"Your raptor has a twenty percent greater chance of entering the planet's atmosphere undetected during a battle," Spock points out, "which leaves the only variable factor, how do you plan to eliminate the centurions on the ground?"

"We have three cylon transponders," Helo suggests, glancing at Kara and Adama in turn. "We can take two Vipers as an escort, between the three ships we shouldn't have a problem getting the element of surprise on them."

"Fifty walking targets are a lot different than seven sitting ones," Kirk warns, and Kara's glare is like a laser.

"I think I can handle it," she says, flat and icy, and it's then Jim realizes exactly how much of this she's taking on herself. "And even if there's still a few of 'em left after-- exploding rounds usually do the trick."

"The only thing we don't know is what's waiting for us inside the bunker," Helo says, glancing from his wife to Kara and then to Adama. "What are the chances we'd get down there only to find out we don't have a prayer of getting back?"

There's quiet for a second, then Spock answers. "The way events have progressed so far would suggest our opponents are more interested in the advantage gained by taking prisoners than in casualties. Also, the Romulans are unaware we are acting independent of Starfleet's sanctioning. Thus far they have taken no action against the Federation; murdering members of the Enterprise's crew would certainly be cause for strong retaliation, and it is logical to assume they would like to avoid that outcome."

"So you're saying the odds are good they won't just shoot us in the head before we get inside the building?" Kara asks, her mouth twisted like she's trying not to smile or maybe trying not to wince.

"Yes, Lieutenant, in essence that is exactly what I am saying."

Roslin is the first to break the silence. "Will this work?" She's looking at Adama now, and Spock, the voices of reason. Adama spreads his hands. "If you can make sure we're not gonna end up with a base star crawling up our asses..." Spock's chin dips down, not even a flicker of an eyebrow showing what he thinks of having his certainty challenged. "Mr. Scott and Mr. Chekov will have to confirm our ability to alter our phaser banks to the necessary levels," he says, "but provided we are able to do so, the plan is likely to succeed."

"Likely to succeed?" Jim murmurs later, catching up to Spock as they leave the conference room and grinning sideways at him. "I'm losing my touch-- used to be every plan I came up with was impossible at best, competency-questioning lunacy at worst."

Spock shrugs one shoulder. "I cannot speak to how your tactical skills have evolved."

Jim snorts. "Like hell you can't. I think you're just getting used to me and you don't want to admit it."

Spock glances sideways. "I have little problem admitting to something that occurred quite some time ago, Captain."

Jim grins, tries not to feel too victorious, or at least not to show it. He hasn't gotten tired of patting himself on the back for badgering Spock into being friends, and thinks he probably never will.

For the next two days Jim practically lives in Galactica's pilot ready room while Kara and Sulu pace the front of the room and discuss tactics. He and Helo sit two rows back, ostensibly listening. They've played tic-tac-toe a few times. It's not like they've got to be there, but they both know if they're not the two pilots will come to them with the flight plan equivalent of selling them the Brooklyn Bridge, and it's just best to cut these things off before they get out of hand.

It's six hours in on their second day, and Jim calls a halt. "Can we come back in say... six hours and pick this back up? If I don't sleep in my own bed for a while I think I'm going to lose my mind." Helo looks like he could hug him. "Come on, Sulu, let's head back, remind our crew what we look like."

They're heading toward the hangar deck, all four of them, when an alarm blares and Adama's voice sounds over the intercom. "This is the Commander. Enemy fighters incoming, all pilots to the hangar deck for immediate launch. Condition one set throughout the ship, this is not a drill."

Helo immediately turns back toward CIC and Kara's already running, Jim and Sulu starting after her without even a second glance. She vaults down the ladder into the hangar deck, looks around and screams for Chief Tyrol. "Where's the rest of my gods-damn pilots?" she yells, struggling into her flight suit. Jim glances around; there's ten, maybe a dozen other pilots hopping into planes, a handful more doing the same dance with their suits that she is.

"Fifteen vipers out with the CAP," Tyrol fires back, grabbing a helmet so it's ready when she needs.

She zips up her suit and whirls on Sulu, her face intent and alight with adrenaline. "You really as good in the cockpit as you say you are?" He doesn't waste a second saying yes, and she grabs a flight suit off the hook and shoves it at him. "Great. You're on deck in three minutes."

Sulu gets into the suit, grabs a helmet and looks at Jim, his expression torn, and Jim doesn't know what to do. "Go," he says, motioning toward the Viper the deck crew is rolling toward them. What else can he say? Sulu's two steps away when he thinks of something. "See you when you get back."

He's not about to admit he's nervous; he's always been grateful the Enterprise isn't a battle cruiser, and he's not used to standing back worrying about his people running into a fire fight that could cost them their lives. He doesn't like it now, not for Sulu and not for Kara, who's not really his to worry about, but who he's worrying about anyway.

"You will, sir," Sulu replies, snapping to attention for a brief second before running up the ladder and hopping into the cockpit.

Then Jim is left standing alone in the middle of what is still a bustling hangar deck, watching the fighter jets roll toward the tubes, looking a little forlorn. He realizes this a second later when one of the flight crew-- he thinks her name's Carrie or Callie-- pauses by his elbow and nods toward the ladder. "You can head back to CIC," she suggests. "The Commander will be watching the DRADIS."

It's as much for his own good as hers, he realizes; he's in their way. He nods, says thank you, and takes off toward the CIC at a jog. The Marines at the door let him pass without comment, and he moves to stand opposite Adama, staring up at the radar screen.

"Captain," Adama murmurs. It's almost a question, one Kirk doesn't answer. Adama's eyes narrow at the screen. "Who's in Viper six?"

"It's Sulu," Jim answers. "Kara handed him a helmet and he jumped right in."

"Well we can use all the help we can get, our CAP's getting pounded out there and the other squadron's ten minutes out." He supposes that's the closest to a thank you he's going to get.

On the radar screen, Jim watches the dots marked _cylon raider_ swarming in and around one group of numbered Vipers, while Kara's group races toward them. He tries to follow, her in Viper two and Sulu in six, but once they join it's all he can do to tell friend from foe. He doesn't realize he's gripping the edge of the table as tight as he can until his thumb cramps and he has to let go.

The hardest part is hearing them talk. The chatter, callsigns and shouts and the echo of gunfire; he knows it would be far worse to watch in silence, not knowing anything except what the dots on the screen tell him. But hearing and not being able to do anything-- it's not easy. This is why he's usually part of the away team-- he can't stand to hang back and just spectate.

Kara's voice cuts through the static. "This is Starbuck. Racetrack, Sulu, you're on me-- everyone else, follow Hot Dog. Do this just like you did the other day and you won't be polishing my helmet with your toothbrushes tonight." Three Vipers break off from the rest of the group and veer around the opposite side of where the CAP has the raiders engaged.

"Starbuck, what the hell are you doing?" Adama mutters. It's not too comforting for Jim, who draws in a deep, silent breath, says nothing, and settles in to wait.

Sulu banks left, following close behind Thrace's wing. He hadn't been exaggerating when he said he was certified to fly a Viper (you don't kid about stuff like that, no matter how bad you want to show off) but he hadn't mentioned how long it had been since he'd straddled the cockpit of a fighter jet. Fifteen g's pressing in on him at all angles, he's glad he did an extra lap of deck seven this morning, and wishes he'd been doing an extra for three months so maybe he wouldn't feel like he's about to be crushed like a tin can.

Hikaru doesn't know what she's doing, why she's leading them away from the battle, but he can't think about anything other than following her lead. To his right the cylon raiders swarm in little pinpricks of red light, the Colonial fighters grey smudges against the black, too fast to follow. "Jesus, they're like... bugs," he mutters.

"Yeah, they're a frakking infestation," says Racetrack from Thrace's other side.

"Let's go play exterminator," Thrace says, gunning her engine and bringing her Viper into a tight spiral, and Sulu grins as he follows.

They shoot towards the action and a group of raiders breaks off to meet them. "Weapons hot," says Thrace, and laughs as she adds, "That means fire at will, Sulu." Sulu tosses her a little salute as they draw level with each other, and she fires back a grin.

Then the cylons are on them and it's all he can do to keep himself from getting blown up. The Viper, he realizes abruptly, is the Italian sports car of planes; one touch to the directional and he's flipped over, flying back the other way with a raider on his tail. One more touch and he's flipped again, firing across its nose, and he's gratified and disgusted to see blood and sparks spray into space.

"They _bleed_?!" he shouts, looking around for where the hell Thrace went.

Racetrack's laugh crackles in his ear. "Ask Starbuck about the one she killed and rode home like a tick on a frakking dog," she suggests, and Sulu sees her on his right, blasting another raider to pieces.

After that time blurs; inside the tiny plane Hikaru's attention is divided between the radar, the dials, the view outside his cockpit, and beating back the nerves threatening to rise up like bile in his throat. After the second time he's almost blown to hell, he thinks he might actually throw up. He's reminded why he didn't choose to follow Combat track at the Academy.  
At some point, he can't tell how long it's been, he realizes Thrace is cornered. The radar shows the Colonials have lost a pilot; Racetrack flew in to help them, so he's the only one close enough to make a difference.

"Little help over here!" she yells, and he says something back, he can't remember what it was even a second after it leaves his mouth.

He knows what to do, he realizes. The cylons are machines, but they fight the same way human pilots do; by following their targets. He gives the throttle everything it can take, moving to intercept Thrace and the three raiders on her tail. Except he doesn't intercept; he waits for one to shoot at him and flicks off everything but the auxiliary power, for all intents and purposes sitting dead in the air.

"Sulu," Starbuck yells, "what the hell are you doing? Are you hit?"

He doesn't answer; she flies past and just as the raiders pass him he hits the power again, swinging around into an upward spiral, shooting as he goes. The cylons vanish, one after the other, gouts of flame and blood flinging free as they explode.

And then it's just a matter of cleaning up; the Colonials have the toasters outnumbered now almost three to one, and it doesn't take a lot to send the rest of them the way their buddies went.

By the time they're back on Galactica, Sulu's feeling less like he's going to throw up everywhere and more like he's on cloud nine. He gets whacked on the back about a hundred times, Kirk shows up at one point beaming in relief, but the best thing is when Starbuck slips up next to him and grabs onto his collar. "What--" he asks, pulling his head back on a vain effort to look down at what she's doing.

"You earned these today," she mumbles with something between her teeth; she takes it out and fumbles at his collar again, and he realizes it's one of her pins, the wings the pilots wear that pick them out as Viper jocks.

"Thanks, Starbuck," he says, grinning like an idiot. She tips him a salute and a wink, and he watches her go with his grin still plastered on.

Kirk bumps him shoulder to shoulder and nods toward the transporter pad. "Good work. Now come on, I got a date with my pillow. Unless you want to stay and bask some more?" He's sort of smirking, and Sulu grins back, shaking his head. "No, sir. Let's go."

 

The next time he's out in a Viper it doesn't go nearly as smoothly. He does alright; he's an odd fit in the Colonials' well oiled machine, but he makes do. They drill until he thinks he might actually fall asleep in the cockpit, but he's sure as hell not going to say anything because he's in this for real. He's a Starfleet pilot who got his wings from Starbuck; he's not going to disappoint her, or anyone else who's counting on him not to mess this up.

Athena's out in a raptor monitoring them with a visual link back to the Enterprise; Sulu knows Kirk's annoyed by the Colonials' DRADIS system, though he'd never say as much where any of them could hear him. He's gotta say this for Kirk-- he knows what he's doing most of the time. Sulu's pretty sure if he were serving under anyone else, the restlessness that's been dogging him lately would have him ready to explode instead of just vaguely dissatisfied.

They're on their way back in finally, the raptor bringing up the rear as they all fly back into the hangar. Sulu's Viper comes up from the tube and he climbs out, unstrapping his helmet with a grin-- but suddenly there's yelling and running and everyone's running for the pad where Athena's raptor is being brought up. Fire extinguishers go off and Sulu feels his expression morph into something horrified.

"What happened?" he yells as Cally runs back toward the comm link on the wall.

"Thruster misfired!" she says back, and then she's yelling into the handset for Helo and Doc Cottle.

"She should go to the Enterprise," he says, elbowing his way to her side as she hangs up. "Our sickbay is better, our medicine--"

"Try telling that to her husband," Cally snaps back, and then she's gone and he's standing in a gaggle of other pilots looking bewildered and worried as Captain Agathon and an old man in a lab coat come jumping down the stairs. The XO barks out, "Make a hole, gods dammit!" as he pushes through the pilots, and Sulu has to turn away when they pull Athena out on a stretcher.

Hikaru knows he shouldn't interfere. He knows he should let the Colonials take care of their own. But he finds himself darting away from the hubbub and flipping open his communicator anyway, hailing the Enterprise without a second thought.

"Sulu to Enterprise, I need to speak to the captain." He waits a second, then they patch him through to Kirk. "Captain, there's been an accident here... I'm fine, but one of the other pilots-- Lieutenant Agathon was hurt, sir. I'm not sure how badly, but... but I think it's probably not good."

Sulu knows Kirk's a genius, knows he can read between the lines of people's words as easy as breathing. Doesn't stop him from being stupidly grateful when Kirk doesn't require more explanation than that. "Understood, Sulu. I'm sending Dr. McCoy to join you, stand by."

"Thank you, sir," says Sulu, taking a moment to slump back against the wall, letting his communicator flip closed as his hands hang loose at his sides.

He looks up and barely-- barely-- controls a jump as he sees Starbuck standing not two feet from him, her forearm leaned against the wall, this probing look on her face he hasn't got a prayer of reading. He opens his mouth to protest, but realizes just as quickly that she hasn't said anything, and closes it. He straightens, his chin lifts and his shoulders settle; she's almost as tall as he is, and he's seen enough of the way she works by now to know how this might go down. He figures if she's going to get pissed he might as well take it standing up.

Instead she says the last thing he ever expected. "Thanks for doing that." Hikaru's mouth drops open and he closes it again, blinking. "What, you expected a showdown over you interfering?" she asserts, making a noise halfway between a laugh and a snort.

He feels his face heat up, and shrugs one shoulder, a little uncomfortable. "Well," he hedges a little, and Starbuck shakes her head.

"Doc Cottle's ours and he's good at what he does, but it'd be hard to find a better doctor than McCoy no matter what sector you're in. He's patched me up a few times," she explains with a bit of a grin, patting her side. "Never had ribs heal that nice before or since."

His communicator beeps again. "Sulu, this is McCoy. Ready to beam over." He glances at Starbuck before he slips away toward the transporter pad, and feels her following close behind. He's glad, and realizes he doesn't want to be done talking to her yet.

McCoy materializes on the pad with a case in hand and that look in his eye like he's just waiting for someone to do something stupid he can sedate them for. "Where is she?" he asks, hopping off the pad and heading for the stairs. Sulu follows close behind but it's Starbuck who answers the question.

"Cottle took her to the infirmary, Helo-- her husband was with her. The thruster on her shuttle misfired, sent it bouncing around the tube like a gods-damn ricochet bullet." Hikaru hears the edge to her voice; he'd almost forgotten how this must be affecting her, how close they all are to each other.

"Well it doesn't sound like anything I haven't dealt with before, and I'll be happy to put her back together, as long as your doc isn't gonna crawl up my ass when I'm tryin' to work."

McCoy glances back at Starbuck, who shrugs and starts, "I'll knock him on the head with a blunt object myself--"

They're at the door to the infirmary and McCoy stops short and turns to the two of them, cutting off the rest of Starbuck's sentence. "You can't come in," he says, looking from her to Sulu and back. "'Specially you, Kara. Blunt objects aside-- I'll deal with your doc myself. But you need to go somewhere else-- I'll send someone to get you soon as I know anything."

She's thinking about arguing-- out the corner of his eye Hikaru sees it, the shift in her expression when the protest rises up in her throat, and the moment she clamps down on it, swallows whatever she was going to say, and nods. "Fine."

McCoy nods back, and vanishes inside. Sulu lets out a breath he hadn't thought about holding, and tries to shove away the worry (though in a way he's surprised it hasn't crossed his mind before) about who's going to take her place in the raptor, the plans they'd spent so many days hammering out, plans that were contingent on her being able to hack into the bunker where Adama's being held.

He's startled by Starbuck's hand on his elbow, leverage to drag him away from the door and down the hallway. "Come on," she says, bone-weary but determined. He doesn't protest or ask where she's taking him. Hikaru's pretty good with people; he can usually tell when to talk and when to shut up, and with her right now, it's definitely not time for words.

The pilots' bunks are an oddity to him; he hasn't had a roommate since his third year at the Academy, and he definitely hasn't shared a room with nine other people since camp the summer before fifth grade. He hangs in the doorway, watching her move around the room with the a tired familiarity he recognizes easily. She sheds her flight suit and shoves it in a locker; he tries not to be too obvious about glancing at the photos tucked in her mirror, but he can't make any of them out from where he's standing anyway.

When she plunks a bottle and two shot glasses down on the table, he cracks a smile, and speaks for the first time since greeting McCoy at the transporter pad. "So you're not just a viper jock, you're a mind-reader too?"

Her smile is thin, but it's there. "Come on, flyboy. Let's see if you can handle ambrosia as well as you do a Viper."

She drops into a chair at the head of the table, and he stands behind the one next to her, feeling suddenly tired enough to curl up in one of these spartan chairs and go to sleep with his head on his arms. Instead he unzips his flight suit and struggles out of it, tossing it on the far end of the table before sliding into his seat and taking the shot she's poured him.

"Cheers," he says, lifting it into the space between them, and she mimics the motion before they down their shots in unison. The liquor is a fiery slick down his throat; it's sweet and tangy and one of the best things he's ever tasted. "This isn't gonna make me start seeing purple spiders or anything if I drink too much of it, right?" he asks.

Starbuck leans in on one elbow, her lips curving wide. "I make no promises," she says, and snickers.

Four shots later they're both laughing like children about-- fuck, Hikaru can't even remember what, but he thinks it's probably less important than the fact they're not a pair of morose motherfrakkers anymore-- they're a pair of drunk motherfrakkers, and they're enjoying the hell out of themselves, even if neither of them really know what they're actually talking about.

"You're not what I expected," she says, scrubbing the back of her hand over her mouth as she sets the glass down. Her eyes take another second to meet his, and she cocks her head to one side. He doesn't really know what to say to that; he sort of wants to know what she expected, but sort of doesn't care. When she pours them each another shot and he props up his elbow to reach for it, she doesn't let go right away, and their fingers sort of bump and tangle. She lets go after a second, but as soon as they've tossed back the shots and slammed the glasses back down on the table, she grabs onto a handful of his shirt and closes the gap between them, pressing her mouth to his.

This is the second time in as many hours she's done something that took him completely off guard. He's not used to this, to someone surprising him every chance they get, and the more he sees of Kara Thrace the more he wants to turn that scrutiny back on her and dig as deep as he can.

So he kisses back. It's awkward and his fingers are buzzing with alcohol and nerves, and he'd like to get closer to her but he can't think of anything important enough to pull away from the feel of her mouth, her sharp urgent kisses and her hand fisted in his shirt. She climbs into his lap, cupping his face in her hands, and Hikaru laces his fingers at the small of her back.

Part of him wants to ask why, wants to figure out where this is coming from-- but part of him is still scraped raw from everything that happened to them today, still searching for something to soothe the electricity crackling under his skin, and is immeasurably grateful that all of a sudden words aren't necessary.

When he leaves later, Kara's asleep in her rack, curled in on herself with a hand under her cheek, and Sulu knows as soon as he hits his quarters he'll be sleeping like a baby.

Jim gets off shift and makes himself head for his quarters instead of the conference room, though his brain has helpfully reminded him of all the planning there is yet to be done. His legs feel leaden; once inside, he doesn't even bother with the lights, just strips off his shirt and falls onto the bed, twisting himself into the sheets. By the Enterprise's clock it's the middle of the morning, but the past week has messed up his internal clock so badly that he doesn't waste a second before passing out.

When he wakes he's sprawled on his stomach with his face smashed against the pillow, the sound of a hail from outside his door jerking him from sleep. He pushes himself up onto his elbows and says "What, who is it?" Except that what comes out sounds more like someone speaking Klingon around a mouthful of marbles; he swallows, clears his throat, and tries again. "Who's it?"

"It is Spock." Jim collapses back onto the pillow and muffles a groan. Then he rolls over and starts to drag himself upright. Not quickly enough, apparently; he hasn't even made it halfway when Spock prompts him, "Captain?"

"Yeah, yeah, come in," he says, waving irritably at the door. It slides open and Spock steps in, one eyebrow vaulting toward his hairline as he takes in Jim's bedraggled state of undress.

"If this is an inconvenient time," he begins, but Jim shakes his head.

"There isn't going to be a convenient time, Spock," he mumbles, finally convincing his legs to support his weight. Exhaustion sits low and heavy in his chest like a rock, making it hard to breathe.

Spock's neck straightens. Jim's learned to read regret in his posture, learned to hear it in his tone when he goes quiet like this. "It was not my intent to interrupt your rest. I will return later."

"No," Jim protests, stepping toward the middle of the room as if distancing himself from the bed will convince Spock he's not about to fall back into it. "I'm awake now, and you've got me curious." He runs a hand through his hair and adds with a grin, "Can't remember the last time something was so important you showed up at my quarters unannounced."

Spock makes a face (his expression hardly changes, but Jim sees the flicker in his eyes and feels gratified anyway) and folds his hands behind his back. "Doctor McCoy has returned from Galactica and has updated me on Lieutenant Agathon's condition. I did not think it prudent to wait to tell you."

The smile drops off Jim's face and he nods, heaving a breath. "Is she gonna make it?"

"She will heal," Spock affirms. "But she will need to remain in recovery for several weeks. Someone will need to take her place on the mission down to rescue Admiral Adama."

"Someone," Jim repeats. His brain's mostly awake by now and he's getting all the signs from Spock that there's something his first officer is building up to.

Spock's eyes are steady on his, and Jim can read reticence there, which unsettles him. "Yes, Captain," he says. "I wish to inform you I intend to volunteer myself to Commander Adama to take Lieutenant Agathon's place in the shuttle."

He doesn't give Jim a chance to reply, but goes on smoothly, gaining momentum, "It is illogical for the Colonials to risk more of their officers simply because the Admiral is a member of their crew. The other pilots are all needed in the air strike, and I am more than adequately trained to pilot a shuttle of their raptor class. In addition, I have familiarized myself with Lieutenant Agathon's reports on the cylon computer system, and am confident that I will be able to hack into the bunker with little trouble."

Jim doesn't say anything for a minute after Spock finishes. He knows the tone the Vulcan uses when he's saying anything he can think of to convince someone he's right-- he uses it on Jim all the time. He also thinks that Spock's going to have to do better than that if he wants Jim not to at least try and talk him out of it.

"Not that I don't appreciate your concern for the even distribution of talent," Jim says, "but you think there isn't someone who can do the job just as well? Someone who wouldn't leave me without a first officer during a crazy space battle?" Spock is the only first officer Jim ever considered, the only person he wants at his back when the shit hits the fan, neither of which have much to do with why he'd rather have Spock on the bridge with him while all this is going down.

"I fail to see how my presence on board the Enterprise will affect the outcome of events," Spock replies, stiffly, like he knows he's being obtuse, "and no, I do not believe there is anyone else with the adequate training or skills to take Lieutenant Agathon's place."

"There's no one with the training or skills to take your place here if something happens to you either." He feels compelled to point this out as if it's actually likely to change Spock's mind, though Jim knows (from two years spent working side by side with him, and from three months before that spent pestering, badgering and harassing Spock into taking the job in the first place) that Spock only decides things when he's good and ready to.

"Anyway," Jim goes on before Spock can reply. "Thanks for telling me first." He brushes past him on his way to the closet to get a clean t-shirt, not turning around as he tugs it over his head. He wants Spock to leave, wants to get back into bed and not come out for a week or three. He's sick of walking around weighed down by all this dread, and feeling this gulf between him and Spock getting wider every time they talk is only making it harder.

He hears Spock move behind him and turns, squaring his shoulders. Spock has closed some of the distance between them and his eyebrows are drawn together. "Your concern is--"

"Illogical, I know," Jim snaps, "I'm sure you've already calculated the likelihood of getting blown up down there versus getting blown up up here--"

"I do not think it is illogical," Spock interrupts, and Jim is so startled by the vehemence in his voice that he shuts up, his eyebrows high. "There is a very real danger to everyone involved in this mission-- it would defy logic not to consider this. However..." Here he pauses, his eyes on Jim's burning with tension and conflict, and it takes all of Jim's control to stand still and stay quiet when Spock says, "You are not thinking clearly."

He doesn't let himself have an outburst, doesn't give in to the urge to explode, and not just because he knows Spock's absolutely right. He takes a deep breath and finally just says, "You wanna explain that a little?"

"Your judgment is compromised where I am concerned," Spock says, his voice no quieter, but softer than Jim has ever heard it. "You must know this, Jim."

"Maybe it is," he grits out rough as broken glass. "But as you're so fond of reminding me, I'm an illogical human with illogical attachments to people who matter to me. It shouldn't surprise you to be one of them."

"It does not. And I am grateful for-- for it. But it does not change the facts, nor my certainty that this is the right thing to do."

Jim feels more exhausted than he did before he laid down to sleep. He knows this is a chance to do something different, but he's not sure what that is or how he'd manage not to screw it up. He is very tired of being a starship captain; Gaila's words return to him, _You're only twenty-seven_. It occurs to him that maybe that's a little young to end up consistently being the only thing standing between the Federation and enormous disasters.

That's a tidal wave he doesn't want to let out, though, and despite the exhaustion and building anxiety he finds it easier to hang onto the persona of Jim Kirk the starship captain than Jim Kirk the guy who's too stupid to keep a handle on the most important relationship in his life, the guy who can't tell where he stands with the person who matters more to him than just about anyone else.

He gives a curt nod and steps toward his desk and the gold shirt draped over the back of the chair. "Understood, Mr. Spock. I do appreciate your-- your forthrightness, and I'm sure Commander Adama will be grateful as well." He pulls the shirt on and rolls his shoulders back, straightens the cuffs, and nods toward the door. "I'll be in the conference room until it's time to beam over-- who's got the bridge?"

There's barely a flicker in Spock's expression as he processes Jim changing tacks. "Lieutenant Uhura has the conn," he says, following without hesitation as Jim leads the way out into the hallway, and Jim finds he's stupidly relieved when they part ways.

Spock's face is intent and serious when he tells Adama, later, that he means to accompany the landing party; his expression doesn't change, even enough for Jim's practiced eye to pick out, when Adama tells him honestly he doesn't have to do it. He doesn't think twice about refusing the out.

He sets out the same reasons he'd given Jim earlier; Adama seems impressed, if overwhelmed, by Spock's thoroughness. "Well, alright then, Commander. We'll be lucky to have you on." He glances at Jim, maybe still wondering if he's going to throw a wrench in the works.

Jim shrugs. He knows Spock's right, he knew it earlier and there's no reason to think differently. He knows he should just let him go, that it really doesn't make more sense to substitute anyone else into Athena's spot. It still doesn't stop the constant murmur of nerves in the back of his mind, the part of him that's abjectly terrified of what he'd do if something went wrong. If he can't be there to watch Spock's back-- it's stupid, as soon as it hits his conscious mind he shakes it away like a fly. But the sentiment remains below the surface like a splinter in the back of his mind, and he knows he's going to have to dig it out-- he just can't do it now.

The final briefing's over and they walk back to the hangar deck in a group, Roslin and Adama and Kara and Helo and Racetrack, Jim and Spock and Sulu and Uhura and Scotty. They're all in this together now; they were before, too, but now there's no time left and all they can depend on from here on out is the trust they've built up between each other. Jim hopes-- prays, he thinks Roslin would say, and maybe it is a prayer, he wouldn't know enough about it to tell-- but everything in him is yearning toward this time tomorrow when one way or another, he'll know how things pan out.

They'll have six hours to sleep before liftoff. Kirk's already told his crew they'd better rest up; they know he's probably not going to listen to his own orders, but none of them say anything about it, not even Spock. The President finds his eyes with hers, though, and he doesn't need her to ask with words to know what she's thinking. "Just because you're not going down there doesn't mean you get to work yourself into the ground," she murmurs as she passes him, and he has to smile.

He's surprised a moment later by Sulu, asking almost apprehensively for permission to remain on Galactica. "Since I'll be with the pilots when we take off anyway, sir..." he trails off, but after Kirk tells him yes he sees him walk over to Kara. They talk for a minute, low and intimate, their heads together. Jim turns away, his smile bittersweet. It's nothing he expected; but then neither Kara nor his helmsman have ever made a habit of being predictable.

Before he gets on the transporter pad he goes and grabs Kara by the elbow, pulling her into a tight hug. "You better be safe," he mutters into her ear, feeling her hands uncurl against his back.

"Jim," she starts, but her voice catches and his hand goes to the back of her head, pressing her cheek against his shoulder.

"Just-- just be safe," he repeats, stepping back finally. His eyes skate to Sulu, who he knows he doesn't need to have a moment with; he stands at attention and salutes, and Jim salutes back. "Both of you-- shots on me tomorrow night, okay?" He grins, because he has to and because he means it; there's a part of him that simply can't believe they'll be getting drunk together tomorrow, but there's a bigger part that can't believe it'll happen any other way.

"This is going to be interesting," he says a while later as he falls into step beside Spock, strolling away from the transporter room. He doesn't actually have a destination in mind, and Spock starts following where he leads, which means they're going to walk aimlessly for a little while. He's okay with that; he's past the point of trying to talk himself out of finding excuses to spend more time with Spock, even if it means they're in danger of another conversation like they had earlier.

"'Interesting' has several definitions, Captain. Clarification--"

"Hard," he cuts him off. He didn't think he was ready to bring this up again so soon, but he's feeling braver now, maybe-- or maybe he's just realized it's going to happen whether he's ready or not and he might as well be a little more honest with Spock than he was earlier. "It's-- I know I can't stop you, but I still don't like you going down there-- alone." He'd almost said _without me_, which would've sounded stupid. He's glad he caught himself.

"I will be one of four people on the planet's surface, Captain. Hardly 'alone'." Spock doesn't turn his head, but Jim can sense him looking.

He sighs silently. "You know what I mean."

Spock regards him with quiet intensity. "You are anxious."

"Well yeah," he admits, glancing sideways to meet Spock's eyes. "I mean, aren't you?"

"No," Spock says, and while Jim works out whether he believes him or not Spock adds, "If I am feeling anything, it is eagerness to put this mission behind us so we may move out of the Neutral Zone and back to Federation space."

Jim has to grin at that, at how prim he's trying to sound. "Come on, Spock. Don't pretend you like it better when it's boring."

The corners of Spock's mouth curl and Jim feels his smirk smooth out, more like a smile. "I do not prefer boredom-- but I would not mind if our next mission did not put any of the crew in danger of being killed."

"Yeah... that'd be nice." He's surprised at his own sudden surge of emotion; he shakes off the tightness in his chest, but the fear is harder to dispel. He turns, grabbing Spock by the elbow to make him stop. He knows he's an open book to Spock; he probably doesn't need to say this, but he's going to say it anyway. "You better come back."

Spock blinks, which translates to surprise and a little bit of confusion. "I--" He stops, his eyes boring hard into Jim's. It's a quick moment of silent thought, then he nods once and says firmly, "I will."

Jim knows what an effort it must've been not to qualify that statement; somehow, that means more than the sentiment itself. His fingers are digging into Spock's arm and he makes himself let go. "Good."

After Jim flees toward his quarters Spock continues on toward his own at a more sedate pace. He wonders if he should expect the captain to sleep, or if it is more likely he will pace and worry and attempt to take his mind off of their impending mission until it is time for him to return to the bridge.

He knows the chances that he himself will get much sleep are low; his mind is still humming with the thread of confusion, yearning and anxiety that flooded him when Jim grabbed his arm, and for a moment he gives the mental equivalent of a sidelong glance at the idea of going to Jim's quarters. But he cannot find a good reason to do so without admitting to himself he does not want to spend the next few hours alone, and so he quickly shakes the thought away.

He passes the observation deck and stops short, seeing a familiar figure standing alone in front of the wide windows. He is closing the distance between them before he realizes it, and stops short a few feet away.

"Madam President," he says quietly, not wishing to startle her; she jumps anyway, and he lets his regret show on his face. "Forgive me if I am disturbing you."

She shakes her head instantly. "No, Mr. Spock, not at all. Please." She gestures to the space beside her, and he settles into a comfortable posture with his hands behind his back.

"I did not realize you had returned with us to the Enterprise," he says, understanding her restlessness though he could probably not articulate why, yet wondering at her reluctance to spend the time on her own ship.

"I couldn't stand to be in that room anymore," she says, the smile she turns toward him kindly self-deprecating. "I thought I was holding up all right, and I suppose until now I was. But I knew if I had to spend the next six hours trying to sleep in there I'd lose my mind a little bit."

Spock is silent for a moment. He understands, too well perhaps, what it is like to bear the weight of absence in the heart, how difficult it is to navigate around spaces that ought to be filled. "I am glad the Enterprise is-- that you feel comfortable here." He does not know how to say what he really means, that this is his ship and he is more proud to call it home because she has found it welcoming.

"Sometimes I just don't know how we ended up here," she says with a little sigh, taking a seat on the bench behind them.

Spock sits as well, turned toward her with his hands on his knees, marveling a little at how simple it is for her to put him at ease. His mouth quirks a little, and he admits, "If you were Captain Kirk, I might cite the course we had plotted to reach these coordinates in space. But that is not what you mean."

She laughs in delight. "No, no indeed." Her laugh fades and she is silent for a long moment. Just as Spock is beginning to wonder what she is thinking, she says softly, "I hate that they used me against him. That they knew-- gods forgive me, that they knew he cared enough for me to make the trade." Her voice is layered with feeling-- regret, remorse, loneliness, sorrow-- a blend familiar to Spock, for he hears it now in his father's voice every time they speak.

"Did you expect he would not put himself in harm's way if it would save you from the same?" he asks, then feels compelled to add, "I ask, Madam President, because if you did then I would respectfully suggest you reevaluate your expectations of those around you. I cannot claim close familiarity with any of Galactica's crew, yet I can see they care for you quite deeply."

Roslin's expression shifts from a smile to one of deep sorrow, then back to a smile again just as quickly. "I'm just a schoolteacher," she says. It is not a protest; Spock understands. They are all only mortal, and if his elder counterpart's belief in destiny is to be upheld, Spock thinks it is built most strongly on the relationships they have to one another.

He thinks of Jim then, of the times he has heard his friend ponder the oddity in his inauspicious beginnings having led him to where he is now, and says, "Captain Kirk would sympathize, I think."

She glances sideways at him, her smile speculative. "You know him very well."

Spock nods and says carefully, "He is a good friend."

"And a good captain. He puts himself on the line for his crew, just like Bill." She hesitates for a moment, pressing her fingers to her lips, then says quietly, "He would trade himself for you, if you were captured."

Spock looks away and swallows. There is a pause of seconds, then he says roughly, simply, "Yes."

"And to get him back, you would do--

Spock does not interrupt, especially not people he respects, but the words tumble from his mouth before he has fully formed them in his head. "Whatever was necessary."

Roslin shifts to look out at the stars once more, the lines on her forehead soothed away, her soft smile lingering. Nothing more needs to be said; Spock knows that as well as she does. [They sit in silence](http://i891.photobucket.com/albums/ac115/laulaisin/spockroslin.jpg) for a length of time Spock does not bother to calculate, floating gently in a sea of stars as time ticks inexorably forward.

It's not Jim's way to hang back while his people are putting themselves in danger. It's harder than usual this time, worse than he'd expected-- if Bones and Spock _and_ Uhura hadn't all expressly told him they'd file complaints with Starfleet if he stirred one foot off the bridge, he'd have said _the hell with it_ an hour ago and hopped in the damn raptor.

At least he's on his own ship, he reflects; here, Chekov and Uhura know how to deal with him when he's like this, and at least he's about to get to shoot the hell out of some Romulans. If he were on Galactica-- well, he doesn't really give a damn if Adama thinks he's crazy on top of a self-important asshole, but he knows he makes a scene sometimes and he'd rather not do that in front of anyone who's not on his own crew.

Still, this has got to be one of the hardest things he's ever done-- pacing the bridge (he couldn't sit still right now even if they tied him to the damn chair) in front of the viewscreen, listening through one of Uhura's fancy earpieces to the chatter from the pilots, watching the group of planes hanging at the back of the main combat group.

The raptor and the two vipers that flank it are little more than specks on the viewscreen. Jim reminds himself he can't spend the entire battle watching them.

Adama's voice comes over the intercom. "This is Commander Adama. Begin jump prep, set condition one throughout the fleet."  
Jim's breath leaves him with an audible whoosh. "Mr. Truman, prepare for emergency evasive the second we jump in. Mr. Chekov, go to red alert, get ready to shoot their torpedoes out of the air if they fire on us or Galactica. Scotty," he barks, smacking the button on Chekov's console to patch him in to Engineering. "Engage the beacon."

"Aye, Captain," Scotty calls back, and a moment later, "Beacon engaged, transporters and standard communications locked out until I turn it off."

He hits a different button and speaks into the intercom. "All hands, this is the captain. Battle stations, prepare to jump."

Adama counts down and Ensign Truman engages. The jump is not like going to warp; he feels stretched thin for a moment, the pressure in his ears increasing to an uncomfortable degree-- then they're through, looking down on the barren little rock of a moon, and the seven Romulan warbirds staring them down like cats around a pair of heavily armed mice.

"How will we know if the beacon is working, sir?" Chekov asks, almost under his breath.

Jim glances at him, wishing he could say something more comforting than the answer he's got. "If we don't get shot to hell by the cylons in the next five minutes, Chekov, I'd say that's the only sign we're gonna get."

The Romulans' weapons are engaged; Jim stares, unable not to watch the Vipers' evasive maneuvers, barely suppressing a cheer as one of the warbirds stops firing, its phaser battery destroyed.

The sky is still empty of cylon ships. It's taking a little while but they're almost close enough now, Enterprise and Galactica, close enough to fire past the Vipers without endangering them. The Colonial fighter jets move almost too fast for the eye to follow; another few minutes and two more warbirds are out of commission. Jim's knuckles are still white on the back of Chekov's chair. He hasn't been counting the small explosions that signal a lost pilot, though he's seen them out of the corner of his eye.

When the Raptor and the two Vipers start their descent into the planet's atmosphere, Jim spares a glance for the three points of light like falling stars. _Shots on me tonight,_ he reminds himself, before turning back to the spectacle taking up the rest of the viewscreen.

The pressure increases as they enter the planet's atmosphere, and for three, maybe four seconds Sulu feels like he's being forced through a cheese grater. Then they're through and the ground's twenty thousand meters below them, green and grey and rocky with sulfur lakes dotted everywhere, steaming faintly.

"Galactica, Starbuck, we're in atmo and headed toward the target, estimate ten minutes out."

Adama's reply is prompt. "Roger that, Starbuck. Report when you've engaged the cylons."

He looks over at her with a grin and finds her already looking back. "Ready to fight dirty?" she asks, and he can see the glint of her teeth.

"You bet," he says back.

"Nervous?"

"Little late for that now, isn't it?" It's almost like they didn't have this conversation six hours ago. Though on the other hand, he reflects, they were paying more attention to helping each other out of their clothes than they were to the conversation, so a refresher might not be totally out of line.

"Five minutes to target." Helo's voice sounds cool and calm, though Hikaru imagines he's got to be just as nervous as the rest of them. This isn't like any normal mission, they're all aware of it, and if the people in the Raptor are anything like Sulu, they're just trying like hell not to think about it.

"Looking forward to this," Starbuck says with a laugh, and Racetrack is the one who answers, "Frak, me too."

Hikaru's not really looking forward to this-- or at least, he's only looking forward to the part where it's over.

Helo cuts in. "Two minutes to target, weapons hot," and Hikaru gets ready to shoot as their formation swings wide, coming toward the bunker from behind. The big guns swivel to focus on them as soon as they come in sight, and Sulu's body is already operating without his brain's directing it. His thumb on the trigger sprays exploding rounds in an arc toward the guns; one explodes in a cloud of smoke, and the smaller silver bodies stomping to protect their defenses start going down as he and Starbuck go to work.

The guns destroyed, the three planes keep formation as they do a sweep of the area before the raptor prepares to land. The Vipers are going to stay in the air until the shuttle lands, just in case more centurions show up, and so when his Viper's throttle stops responding, it takes Hikaru a second even to realize it.

"My controls are frozen," he says, just as Starbuck yells something similar and Helo shouts, "We're fried. Starbuck, Sulu, tell me you can shoot--"

"Negative," Sulu barks, he's tried it already, and the part of his brain that's not consumed by panic is wondering why they're still airborne if their systems are down. Then he hears Spock's voice, calm as ever. "All three ships are caught in some sort of energy beam-- I hypothesize a tractor beam of some kind."

The ships begin to sink toward the planet's surface and the landing gear comes down. Hikaru's heart is racing so fast he thinks dimly he's probably in danger of actually dying of fright, and all he can think is what the fuck he's going to do to get out of this. There's no way he's letting himself get captured by fucking robots; he's been listening this whole week, he's seen the scars on Starbuck's side and heard about their experiments. Athena aside, the cylons are the enemy, and Hikaru Sulu does not give in to the enemy.

He yanks his sidearm free from the holster at his thigh, beyond grateful that he didn't opt for a Federation standard phaser. A phaser wouldn't have shattered his cockpit window when he pressed the muzzle to the glass and fired, wouldn't have left him a hole big enough to pull himself out through.

"Sulu what the frak--" Starbuck's voice cracks as she yells out, "are you out of your frakking mind, what are you--"

He waves, teetering on the nose of the plane as the ground comes up slowly toward him. "I'll be back," he calls, "promise!" He kicks off, tumbling through the air in a tight flip, rolling as he hits the ground with a hard grunt. He gets to his feet running and heads for the trees.

He has no fucking clue what he's doing. But he's got his communicator, a gun full of exploding rounds, his katana clipped to his shoulder, and he's no dummy when it comes to strategizing either. Sure, the plans they just spent a week forming and drilling were just shot to shit. But he's free, for the moment at least, and he thinks maybe Spock is the only other one who has any concept of the ace they have up their sleeve.

Kirk's just been waiting for an excuse to come down here and blow something up, Hikaru thinks with a grin. He'll almost be happy they gave him a reason to do it.

McCoy and Uhura stand shoulder to shoulder in front of Galactica's transporter pad, identical expressions of fearful disapproval on their faces. "This is lunacy," Bones says for the fifth or fiftieth time.

Jim just shrugs, meets Adama's glance full of anticipation, looks towards Athena pale and determined on his other side. "No other choice, Bones. Just keep an eye out for our shuttle, and have sickbay ready for us." His whole body is flooded with adrenaline and he's itching to shoot something; they've already spent more time than he could stand to waste discussing this. He grins and tips an insouciant salute, then looks over at Gaila with a bracing nod. "Energize."

As the planet comes into focus around them they are already shooting, centurion heads and bodies exploding in quick succession. The heavy raider is not a hundred yards away, and Adama pulls one of Athena's arms around his shoulder as they run toward it, Kirk jogging backwards to cover them. They pause in the shadow of the ship; Sharon is gasping, her hand pressed to her side. "Open the panel on the side of the hatch," she says, "and pull out the thickest wire you see."

Jim pries it open and tugs out wires, flipping open his knife and cutting one. "Here," she says, holding out her hand. He passes her the wire and she reaches out again, asking for the knife.

"What--"

Adama cuts him off. "You may not want to watch this part." Jim won't turn away if Adama won't though, so he watches in fascinated horror as she slices a gash in her hand and feeds the wire into it. Spock, he thinks, is going to be really mad he missed this.

After a minute, maybe two, the heavy raider's hatch begins to lower and she pulls the wire from under her skin. "Okay. Centurions will stay off our backs until we blast into the bunker," she says as she limps toward the ramp.

"And after that?" Kirk asks, following close behind.

"We'll have to wait and see," she says, slipping between the curtain of wires at the front of the ship and fiddling with some controls.

"Fly by the seat of our pants-- I love it," Jim says, his grin only a little manic.

All of a sudden his communicator beeps and he jumps, startled. "Kirk here," he barks into it, and couldn't be more surprised at the voice he hears on the other end.

"Thank God," says Sulu, "where the hell are you?"

"Where the hell are you?" Jim retorts, relieved and confused and waving his arm at Athena to stop prepping the raider to take off, "aren't you captured?"

"Not me-- they got everyone else. I'm in the woods, tell me where you are and I'll come to you."

Adama's making frantic motions with his hands, and Kirk tells Sulu to stand by and puts his hand over the speaker. "They could still have him," Adama says, "they could be faking--"

Kirk shakes his head. "No," he says, "he wouldn't sound like this if he were being forced." Adama makes a face and Jim snaps, "Look, I know my crew, okay? Would you get off your damn paranoia trip and trust me for once?"

Adama looks like he's been bitten on the nose, but he nods, motioning for Kirk to continue. "Sulu, where are you? We're mobile, so let us come get you," he says into the communicator.

"North of the bunker, about two or three miles." Kirk calculates and snorts a laugh. "Turn east for another half mile and you'll be right on top of us," he says.

"Roger that," says Sulu, his breathing getting louder as he starts jogging. "See you in five."

He runs up a few minutes later and Jim thinks he's probably never been happier to see him. "You're a little nuts, you know," he says conversationally, clapping his helmsman on the back as he takes a seat next to Jim inside the heavy raider.

"Learn from the best, sir," says Sulu, and Jim laughs outright. All of a sudden he's feeling better, more optimistic than he has in a while. He takes out his gun and rests it on his knee, looking between Adama and Sulu and Athena, confidence and certainty radiating from his expression. "Alright, let's get airborne," he says, "and let's go get our people back."

The cylons have taken them underground.

For all their planning, Spock had not anticipated a discovery of this magnitude. They had seen the small bunker and assumed that was all there was to see; he is now forced to swallow his pride and a large helping of chagrin that it had simply not occurred to him to think there might be more than met the eye.

They go down several flights of utilitarian stairs, steel clanking under their boots. Spock cannot see what else goes on here, but he hears the sounds of machines at work as they pass doors and other hallways. Once they walk past an open door with a cylon centurion standing placidly in it; its red eye scans them and Spock feels an irrational surge of revulsion.

He realizes quickly why they are being taken so deep. The door they passed through to reach the stairs fitted seamlessly into the wall; if needed, the cylons may retreat behind it and have a sixty-four point seven percent likelihood of remaining undetected.

A rescue party could come, search, and leave again, none the wiser. Spock attempts to assure himself that the humans with whom he works are smarter than that, too smart simply to stop looking when faced with frustration of that nature.

He thinks briefly of Jim, and knows at least there is one person who will not give up until they are found.

They are four levels down when they are separated. Spock had expected this; however, he had anticipated solitary confinement, small cells with little air-- in short, he had expected prison. But the rooms to which they are shown are sparse yet large, more reminiscent of small cargo holds than cells for human occupation. The dark-skinned cylon directs them each to a door, his manner nearly pleasant if it were not for the Romulan disruptor he has trained on them.

"What are you going to do with us?" Lieutenant Edmonson demands as she enters her cell.

The cylon shrugs, amusement curling up one corner of his mouth. "Nothing, yet."

Lieutenant Thrace sneers at him as she backs through the door of hers. "I can't wait to stab you in the jugular again."  
Spock thinks that perhaps she will have to fight the rest of them for that privilege.

Spock is the last to enter a cell, and the cylon says genially, "You'll have to double up, sorry-- bit of a population explosion lately."

He walks slowly through the door, finally giving in to an urge he has tried and failed to combat. "Whatever it is you want, you will find yourselves thwarted," he warns.

The cylon grins. "Maybe so, Mr. Spock. But maybe not." A scene from one of his mother's old vids returns to him, a rough-faced actor threatening his nemesis, _You messed with the wrong guy_, and Spock thinks if this cylon knew Jim Kirk perhaps he would not be so complacent.

The door closes and then there's a low laugh from somewhere behind him. He turns in the dim light to see a haggard older man sitting on the bench against the opposite wall, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a weary look on his face. Even if Spock could not see the Colonial uniform beneath the blanket, Spock would know who his cellmate is.

"Admiral Adama," he says with a nod. "I am Commander Spock of the Federation starship Enterprise." His mouth compresses briefly and he adds, "Though events are not progressing entirely as anticipated, we had come here with the intent of retrieving you from this bunker."

The Admiral appears to consider getting to his feet, then decides against it and just asks, "You're my rescue party?" His brow furrows. "Who's with you?"

"Myself, Captain Karl Agathon, Lieutenant Kara Thrace, and Lieutenant Margaret Edmonson, as well as another pilot from the Enterprise who managed to escape before we were taken hostage."

Adama seems to ponder this for a moment. "And what about my son and my ship?"

"Galactica and the Enterprise are currently in orbit, engaging the Romulan warbirds who were protecting this planet." He wonders briefly if they even know the landing party has been taken. If the beacon is still engaged, Sulu will not have been able to contact the Enterprise yet, and every moment brings the likelihood of an intervention by the cylon base stars closer to reality. The success of the mission depended upon speed and efficiency; soon they will be working on borrowed time.

Some hours pass while Spock fills the Admiral in on the events of the past eleven days, and Adama tells him briefly about what has been done to him so far-- surprisingly little, in Spock's estimation. Aside from a twisted knee incurred during a physical altercation during the Admiral's attempted escape, he is extremely underfed and sleep deprived but otherwise uninjured. It seems the cylons have largely preferred to leave him alone; Spock echoes what their captors have already told the Admiral, that if they are handed over to the Romulans this merciful treatment will not continue. He does not mention the Centaurian slugs, nor any of the Romulans' other preferred methods of torture; those are not images on which either of them need to dwell.

"What about the President, how's she doing?" Adama asks, shifting his leg with a little wince that does not quite hide the sharpness of his focus on Spock's face as he answers.

"President Roslin is well. She is worried about you, and eager to see you returned to Galactica." He thinks of their conversation last night, and adds, "She has been instrumental in ensuring the cooperation between your crew and mine. We share a common goal, but there have been... difficulties."

A grin cracks Adama's face for the first time. "Got some strong personalities on board the Enterprise, too, I take it?"

Spock's mouth slants to one side, an expression of bemused chagrin. "Indeed. My captain and Lieutenant Thrace have known each other for quite some time and are-- quite similar."

The Admiral snorts with a chuckle. "Which means he and Lee are probably like oil and water."

Spock nods. "I must admit to some surprise there has not been a fistfight between them yet."

"Give it time," the other man replies dryly, settling back against the wall.

They are not disturbed all day, except when the cylon who calls himself Simon brings them food. The doors are thick reinforced steel, so there is no chance of communicating with the prisoners in the other rooms; Spock attempts to spend time meditating, but finds he is too on edge to focus. Against all odds, he is less concerned for their situation than he is hopelessly and aimlessly bored.

It occurs to him after eleven hours have passed that the cylons could have destroyed the Colonials' ships in an effort to make it appear the landing party was killed. The thought is so unsettling that it is all he can do to remind himself of Sulu's escape and put it from his mind.

When Simon returns to bring them dinner, more of the same soup and bread they had been served at lunch, Spock finds he cannot resist the temptation to make conversation. "What is it you hope to achieve by taking us all prisoner?" he asks, refusing to look at the Romulan disruptor the cylon is pointing casually at them.

"Well I can't tell you that," he replies jovially. "Haven't you seen enough spy movies to know you never reveal your evil plan before the end?" He seems terribly amused by himself, and Spock has to force his hands to unclench from fists.

"But they do have a plan," says Adama from the corner. "And rest assured it won't be pretty."

Simon's glance is sharp on Adama's face. "It doesn't have to be this way," he says. "This hostility."

Adama laughs like the rustle of paper. "Yeah, actually, it does."

It is then the first sounds of explosions come from outside the door, the low boom that echoes through Spock's stomach, and it makes him want to laugh. Simon's head whips around toward the sound, and Spock finally does allow himself a tight, satisfied smile as he says, "I believe the correct expression here is, 'Do not say I did not warn you.'"

The cylon does not even have an opportunity to reply. A gun blast rockets through the room and Simon clutches his stomach, his mouth working soundlessly as blood begins to well through his fingers and he falls in a heap to the ground. Lieutenant Thrace is lowering her weapon, her jaw set in a grim, fierce smile. "Not nearly as satisfying as last time," she says, her lip curling as she steps over the body and moves toward Adama with barely a glance at Spock.

"What do you hear, Starbuck?" the older man asks, struggling to his feet with a grin.

"Nothing but the rain, sir," she replies, ducking underneath one of his arms and helping him up. Spock can read in every line of her posture the relief that has relaxed her; they might still die getting out of this, but she has done what she came to do, and that is all that matters.

"Lieutenant-- how did you get out?" Spock asks, bending to retrieve the disruptor from the dead cylon's hand.

"She had a little help," says a voice from the door. Spock turns, and it takes everything in him not to give more than the smallest of smiles to see Jim standing there, a Colonial sidearm in each hand, looking windswept and harried and spattered with blood that is clearly not his own.

"Captain," he greets with a nod. "It is good to see you." As if they'd met by accident on the observation deck instead of here amid this act of defiant retaliation, made only more remarkable for knowing what Jim must have done to win through to this point, knowing he must be aware of what else they will have to face to win back to the Enterprise.

"Yeah, you too," Jim replies, grinning suddenly, and Spock feels something uncurl inside him.

"It would seem I am to be grateful for your compromised judgment," he admits quietly, and Jim's grin deepens. He's about to reply when Kara interrupts.

"Come on," she says brusquely, "let's move."

"Grab me a gun and let's bring in the cat," the Admiral mutters, glancing at Kara-- it's not a smile, but it's fond and grateful and she grins in reply. It lights up her whole face, and for a moment she is nothing but a young woman bright with happiness, conscious of nothing in the world save that the Admiral is alive and well. Spock spares a moment to think of President Roslin, and thinks (illogically, emotionally) that she and Kara have much in common.

"I don't know about cats," says Jim, dropping the empty clip in one of his guns and popping another one in, "but I've got some people I've got to find and bring home. Any idea where they're keeping Helo and Racetrack?"

"Nope," she replies, "but I'm going with 'run around yelling names 'til we find them' as a strategy."

"Dad!" Jim is thrust aside as Commander Adama bursts into the room; out in the hallway Spock can see Captain Agathon supporting his wife, Mr. Sulu and Lieutenant Edmonson facing the way they'd come, weapons drawn.

There's talk behind him, but Spock isn't listening. Jim has stepped toward him, his eyes wide and serious. Spock can see faint lines of anger and worry around his eyes, and it looks as if he is about to speak, but then Lieutenant Thrace grabs Spock by the arm and hurries them along toward the door.

They move toward the end of the corridor and Sulu holds up a hand for everyone to stop. "What's the fastest way out of here?" he asks, glancing from the captain to Commander Adama to Athena. "Presuming we don't want to just run out the front door, I mean, and the side door's a little--"

"Blown up," Kirk cuts in from where he's standing shoulder to shoulder with Spock. "Gotta take a detour. Where do those stairs go?" He jerks his thumb to the left, indicating the bunker's central stairs that lead deeper underground.

"Who the hell would know that?" Commander Adama replies, but there's less ire in it.

"Me, I guess," Sharon pants, leaning on Helo's arm. Her face is pale and she's sweating; Hikaru really, really regrets that she had to come down here for them. "But I don't-- I mean it would make sense there'd be a back door, but I've got no idea where it is."

"Well, let's move," Commander Adama says, and Sulu nods, sees Racetrack do the same. It's easier like this, with Kirk and Spock at his back and someone giving orders. Hikaru had joined Starfleet to fly, not to become a good soldier, but somewhere between enlisting and jumping out of a shuttle aiming for a giant drill platform in the sky, it happened. It's made him good to have on a landing party; Kirk's told him so, that he's good backup, and frankly that's a label Hikaru's more than happy to live with.

"Downstairs or up?" Kirk replies, glancing back towards the Commander.

"Down." The Admiral speaks up for the first time, his voice heavy; he's used to having his orders followed, and no one seems inclined to argue.

Kara elbows Racetrack aside to stand in front, and their eyes meet as they bring their guns up. "Let's move," the younger Adama says, and they do.

Down the stairs, into the belly of the bunker, the lights flicker as they pass and they can see brighter light spilling out of rooms-- dozens and dozens of them, the hallways curving away to either side each time they descend a level. Each floor must be a ring, Hikaru realizes, and this the central staircase connecting them all. There must be other staircases; too inconvenient to have to come back this way every time you wanted to go up or down--

His thoughts are interrupted by the gleam of light off silver, and he's shooting before the centurion even has time to bring its gun hand up. Kara's shooting off to the other side, and there's yelling, and they're running and shooting at the same time, practically tripping down the stairs in an effort to get away.

"We've got to split up!" he shouts as they duck into the closest hallway.

Kirk talks over his shoulder with one eye on the stairwell; Spock is crouched beside him, also ready to fire. "Helo, take Sharon and the Admiral and go that way-- we'll try to hold 'em off, give you a chance to get back to the heavy raider."

"Lee, go with them," Kara adds, putting her back against the wall as the Agathons move past. "They need all the firing help they can--"

She's cut off by sudden shots, and Sulu's heart jumps into his mouth as he crowds forward. This, he knows how to do, so used to coming under fire by now that his instinct is honed to a razor's edge. He throws Kirk a glance as the captain ducks further back into the hallway, reloading the exploding rounds in his gun while Sulu shoots.

The hail of bullets drops off and Hikaru drops back to reload. "Let us go," he says, glancing at Kara and then Kirk, "we'll go out first and draw their fire, head around that corridor and meet up with you on the other side."

Kirk glances at Spock, who nods, and Sulu doesn't need any more encouragement. He rolls out onto the platform, comes up into a crouch already shooting, starts up the stairs toward the centurions with Kara and Racetrack close behind him. If he didn't have them he'd be dead, he realizes; there's more than centurions now, he can pick out a few faces further up, whether they're Romulan or cylon is beyond him.

They're nearly there, the level above where Spock and the Admiral had been stashed, and they're almost the only things still moving. He hears footsteps coming down the stairs, and then Racetrack cries out; he looks back to see her bleeding from a hole in the shoulder, holding her gun one-handed now, and they run full speed down the passageway.

Something else he learned from all those away missions with Kirk; you have to know when to cut and run.

Once Starbuck, Racetrack and Lieutenant Sulu have vanished, taking the remaining attackers with them, Kirk and Spock descend one level and start looking for a way up and out. The corridor is dimly lit but they can see well enough to keep pace with each other. In his peripheral vision Spock sees Kirk look at him a handful of times, until Spock finally says, barely out of breath though his heartbeat is rapid, "Please explain the reason for your scrutiny, Jim."

Kirk's expression indicates that he has thought of several replies to Spock's question and does not like the sound of any of them; instead, he favors a vague half-truth. "Just-- you know. Making sure you're alright." He winces immediately afterward, aware, no doubt of how foolish the words sound, how hollow.

Spock's gait slows and then stops, and his head tilts fractionally to the side as he turns to look at his friend. This is not what Jim is asking, if he is asking anything at all; it is not at all what he meant, but a literal answer is the only thing Spock can think of, and so he says, "I have said I am uninjured. The cylons were extremely civil hosts-- apart from keeping us in jail cells, that is--"

He is interrupted by Jim's hands on his chest pushing him back, pressing his shoulder blades into the wall as Jim's mouth is soft and hot on his. It is fairly tame as kisses go, especially considering who is doing the kissing, but there is no questioning the feeling behind it. "I'm really glad you're not dead," Jim mutters as they part. "I was-- I was really worried."

Spock does not say anything for a moment. Instinct had driven his hands up when Kirk shoved him, and they are still resting on Kirk's shoulders, one index finger pressed against the soft skin over his pulse point. It is enough to sense (not clearly, like looking through rippled glass) that _really worried_ is the poorest description possible for how Kirk has spent the past fifteen hours.

"I am-- fine," he says, his fingers twitching against Kirk's neck. His mouth is dry and he cannot stop himself staring, cataloguing the features of Jim's face bare inches from his own; a rough scrape on one cheek, the set of his jaw at odds with the vulnerable mouth, slight creases at the corners of his eyes, eyes that are staring back with equal intensity. Spock's hands tense and when Jim presses forward again he is no longer too surprised to reciprocate.

He is the first to pull back and Jim lets him, grinning. "I thought 'fine' had variable definitions?"

Spock's lips quirk, an eyebrow lofted. "Indeed. But one should not discount the possibility, however rare, of a situation in which all definitions are applicable."

Jim's laugh rings off the walls. "Touche." He backs away another step, conscious of their haste to rendezvous with the rest of their group. "Can we... maybe pick this back up later?" he asks, only halfway smiling, clearly nervous of Spock's answer.

He need not have been. Spock nods. "Certainly."

Ten minutes later they find the bunker's equivalent of a Jeffries tube, and shimmy up it to the round little door at the top. Jim shoves his shoulder against the hatch and it creaks open, just enough for him to look around and see they are alone. No sign of centurions, and the bunker is fifty meters to the left. "The others must be at the raider by now," he mutters, "let's go."

The heavy raider is parked at the front of the bunker; after they'd shot it to shambles they figured no one was coming out that way anytime soon, and as Kirk edges along the side wall to peer around it seems they were right-- no one's out there except Sulu, standing guard at the end of the ramp. They're rather a long way off, almost a hundred meters, and most of it with nothing to take cover under.

"Well, done crazier things," he mutters to himself, ignoring the curious look Spock's giving him. Jim would really like to get back to the Enterprise so he can get his ship out of the Neutral Zone, take a shower, sleep for a week, and then maybe see if Spock will want to make out some more.

He edges out into the open and Sulu turns, waving one hand and calling something back into the raider, turning back to Kirk and Spock and moving his hand in a loop that indicates everyone else is on board. "Come on," he says with a glance and a grin at Spock.

Just as they hit the stretch of open ground between them and the raider, there is a shuddering crash from inside the bunker. As the debris falls away from the entrance a few skin job cylons appear-- four men, one short and rat-faced, one tall and dark, and two identical older men with crafty cunning in their eyes.

"Congratulations," says one with an expansive hand gesture. "You've ruined our bunker and freed the prisoners. We are quite undone."

The other nods, rubbing his hands together in a gesture that, for no reason other than that it's creepy, makes Jim think of the Cryptkeeper. Though, he amends to himself, the cylons' knowledge of twentieth-century Earth TV is probably limited, so commenting on it would be a waste of time. "They have us at a disadvantage," the cylon agrees with his counterpart, "clearly the humans are too smart for us."

"I like to think so," Jim says, steely-eyed and grinning insolently. "But it's not 'cause we're humans and you're cyborgs, it's just 'cause we're better."

The old man on the left (Jim's trying not to think of them as Tweedledee and Tweedledum, but it's difficult) chortles. "Ah, the overconfidence of youth."

Jim snorts. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but don't you come out of the proverbial womb looking like that? What would you know about being young?"

He's stalling, of course, hoping like hell they're not going to have to shoot their way alone through four men armed with disruptors and the handful of centurions at their backs. Jim knows he's blessed in the dumb luck category, but even those are long odds.

The cylon's talking again but Jim's not listening; he's weighing the probability that the cylons don't know the rest of their people have gotten back to the raider against the hope they'll burst out guns blazing. He decides it's stupid to wait for a signal from the others; if they're going to get killed, better not to drag it out.

"Look, I'm sure you're making great points and everything," he cuts in to the conversation, "but the thing is--" and he brings up his gun, firing on the two old men first 'cause they were pissing him off, and by then the other two have their guns up and he and Spock are moving. Jim barrels into the pair and it must be the last thing they were expecting; the short one goes down arms flailing and Spock shoots him as Jim's ramming the butt of his gun into the nose of the other one, getting him between the eyes before he can react.

Pain sears through his shoulder before he registers the sound of the gun's report, and he stumbles forward, turning in time to see Spock blow away the old man who'd shot Jim with the last of his energy. Pushing down the pain, he grabs Spock's elbow. "I'm fine," he says, "We gotta go." The centurions, he sees, have been occupied by Sulu and Kara, who are running toward them shooting as they go. Jim runs, Spock keeping pace beside him, and in moments they've closed the distance.

"You're hit," Kara calls, shoving him behind her and walking backwards as she shoots.

"It's just a flesh wound," he laughs, shoving a new clip into the gun and heading toward the raider.

It happens then, as he's turning behind him to check their position relative to Kara and Sulu. He hears a shot and turns just in time to be knocked on his ass, Spock falling on top of him with a soft grunt. Jim wrestles his way free and bounces up again shooting; Kara's moved to cover them now and he turns to look at Spock--

Who is on the ground still, on his back, one hand pressed to his side a few inches below the fast-spreading green stain on his uniform. Jim drops to the ground, gun falling out of his hand, his breath fast and shallow as his hands press hard over the wound-- on the left side, high up. If Jim had been hit there--

"Stupid," he mutters, voice hoarse as he ducks down and slings Spock's arm around his shoulders. "Stupid idiot, taking bullets for people like that, who taught you--" he has to stop, struggling to his feet, ignoring the gentle bump of Spock's head lolling against his cheek, not letting himself hear the rattle in Spock's breathing.

Sulu and Kara are in front of them somehow; Jim hadn't registered them moving, but they're both firing and the sound of gunfire whines high in his hearing, dimming everything else. Then Sulu yells and drops, clutching his thigh, and Kirk sees bright blood welling between his fingers. _At least we got the Admiral out,_ he thinks, _and Starfleet can't blame this on anyone but me anyway._ It's important to him just then, that no one else is going to have to take responsibility for this.

He's sort of just waiting to be hit and black out, but it doesn't happen. What does happen is the centurion about to fire on them explodes from the neck up, then the one next to it, and Jim turns bewildered to see Lee Adama shouldering Sulu's weight and shooting with his free hand.

"Thought the plan was for you to stay in the raider and get away?" Sulu rasps, grinning in spite of how pale he is.

"Yeah, well, they were my orders, I get to break 'em if I want," Adama says with a grin, and then there's Helo running and getting his arm around Sulu's waist, tossing Adama another gun as he heads back to the raider.

Adama's a good shot, better than Jim by far, and with guns in both hands he's got them covered. Jim ignores the throbbing in his shoulder and concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other; Spock's weight is throwing him off kilter a little, and he knows if they fall they're not getting up again without help. Somehow they get into the raider and he lays Spock down on the floor, his hands moving to cover the hole in his chest again, ruthlessly beating back the surge of panic threatening to choke him. He's dimly aware of Adama and Kara running up the ramp and the ship starting to take off; it hasn't registered that they're safe, because they aren't.

Spock's eyes are closed, but his fingers move, brushing gently against Jim's, and Jim sits and listens to him breathe as the shuttle zips back toward the Enterprise.

Bones must see it in his face when he gets out of the shuttle; bloodstained and filthy, Jim glares sharply at his best friend and says, "Get all these people to sickbay now. Commander Adama, with me." The doctor gives him a look, the one Jim knows means _Do what you gotta do, then get your ass on a biobed_, and he nods before taking off.

It doesn't take them long to get to the bridge. Up on the viewscreen the Romulan fleet is in pieces except for one ship, which the sensor readings on the screen inform Jim is losing power and has no shields or phasers.

"Lieutenant Uhura, hail that ship," he says, and she does, bringing the Romulan commander's haggard face up on the screen.

"This is Captain James T. Kirk of the USS Enterprise and Commander Lee Adama of the Battlestar Galactica," he says, taking the same grim satisfaction in this communication as he did in his final conversation with Nero. "Your base on this moon has been destroyed and your hostages of war have been freed. You are hereby ordered to stand down and retreat from the Neutral Zone into Romulan space along with your cylon allies."

He barely has to glance at Adama before the other man picks up smoothly, "I don't think we need to tell you the kind of response this act of war is going to elicit. You would be wise to communicate to the rest of the Empire that no matter how distant the system, the Federation takes care of its own. And in case a destroyed base and the failure of their mission wasn't enough, you might want to tell the cylons that too."

The Romulan commander looks tired, her face backlit by falling sparks or perhaps a fire somewhere behind her. "Very well, Enterprise," she bites out, looking like she'd rather shoot herself in the head than take directions from them. But at least she's not as proud as Nero, who'd probably have begged for them to blow the ship up rather than slink back to the Empire defeated.

"Nice doing business with you," Jim says with a grin, and hears Adama snort a laugh as Uhura flicks off the transmission.

He turns around, his shoulder starting to throb as the adrenaline leaves him. "Captain, I believe you need to--" Chekov starts, and Jim nods.

"I know. I'm going." He looks around at his crew, pride and relief warring on his expression and finally snaps to attention and salutes them all. "Good work, everybody. I'll be in sickbay-- Uhura, you have the conn."

In the turbolift he prods gingerly at his shoulder, wincing. He doesn't think the bullet's still in there, but his whole arm is covered in blood so it's hard to tell. He glances up at Adama, eyes serious. "I hope you meant what you said back there," he says, "about the Federation taking care of its own. Because we do-- or at least I do. And as soon as I get back to Earth you can bet I'll be crawling up the Admiralty's ass about sending you some help rebuilding your worlds."

Adama's smile is exhausted and spare, but it's genuine. "Yeah," he says, "I meant it. Wouldn't have, two days ago. But." He shrugs. "You laid yourself on the line for my people. Not many people would do that."

Jim grins. "I'm not most people."

Adama grins back, broader than before. "Thank the gods for that."

Spock comes to slowly, feeling as though he is wading through yards of cotton simply to open his eyes. "Well it's about time," says a familiar voice, and Spock tries (twice) to speak before his voice remembers it exists.

"Doctor. I am--" He stops, takes a breath, blinks a few more times.

"Awake, at long last," McCoy says, running a bioscanner from head to toe. He's not looking at Spock's face, but at the readouts on the panel above the bed. "Been sleepin' so much I was beginning to wonder if you'd gone into hibernation."

He feels his eyebrows pull downward. "An illogical worry, Doctor, as Vulcans do not hibernate."

Spock begins to attempt sitting up, but McCoy holds out a hand, stopping him with a finger in the middle of his chest. "Just where do you think you're goin'?"

"To the bathroom," Spock says, "and then wherever I may find something to eat."

"Awake and hungry? That's a good sign." The curtain is shoved aside and Lieutenant Thrace stands there in a tank and hospital scrubs, one arm bandaged above the elbow, pads of gauze on her cheek and clavicle. She moves, and Spock sees she is limping.

"Thought I told you to use that crutch," McCoy says warningly.

Thrace drops into a chair with an unrepentant grin, props her bare feet up on the side of Spock's bed. "Can't use it if I'm sitting down, doc."

Spock has to admire the ease with which she manages to rile the doctor, a skill he will never admit he has cultivated. "How are you feeling?" he asks her, and she shrugs.

"Been better, been worse. Been bored," she adds, flicking a glance toward McCoy, who rolls his eyes and leaves. "We're all stuck in here," she says, shifting her weight. "You, me, Jim, Racetrack, Sulu, Sharon and the old man. Only Helo and Lee got off light," she chuckles.

"Everyone survived." It dawns on him he had not even asked.

"Yeah, you weren't exactly conscious enough to notice," she replies, lifting one hand in a shrugging sort of gesture.

"That is-- I am very glad."

Thrace grins again and struggles to her feet. "You need to go to the head? I can walk you." Spock weighs the ignominy of accepting help against the humiliation of potentially falling down between here and the bathroom, and nods. "Thank you."

Spock places his feet carefully as he walks across sickbay with Kara thumping on her crutch beside him. He sees President Roslin sitting in a chair between the beds on which Jim and Admiral Adama lay; as they pass, Jim holds up both hands with the thumbs raised, and Roslin turns an indulgent smile on them. The admiral smiles their way as well, but his eyes return quickly to the President's face, and Spock sees their hands folded together on the edge of his bed.

In the bathroom, Thrace runs the water while he goes into a stall-- attempting mindfulness of his sense of propriety, he supposes, amused. "I gotta say," she says, her voice echoing over the water, "I never expected you to be the one jumping in front of someone else's bullet."

Spock does not bother shrugging, as she cannot see him. "It was not exactly a conscious decision."

"That only makes it a bigger deal." She pauses before adding, "I don't know his life story, not like you probably do, but I'm willing to bet there haven't been many people in Jim's life who'd've done something like that without thinking about it." She doesn't need to elaborate; in battle, stopping to think is often the difference between life and death, and Spock's choice to put Jim's life before his own was so automatic as to be unconscious.

Spock exits the stall and Thrace shuts off the water, making his words echo in the sudden quiet. "He has been-- he _is_," he corrects deliberately, "a dear friend." Perhaps now having already stated this admission to the President, it is easier to repeat; he does not hesitate before saying, "There is nothing I would not give to ensure his safety."

Something passes through Thrace's eyes, an old sorrow perhaps, or nostalgia. Then she grins, unexpected and brilliant, and holds out her arm for Spock to lean on. "Gods, Spock, who'd've thought-- you, a romantic."

Spock's eyebrow lifts and he says dryly, "Your forbearance in repeating this conversation to anyone would be appreciated." He does not bother analyzing the pleasure he takes in making her laugh.

Helo and Adama-- the Commander, who Jim's almost gotten used to calling Lee-- come to visiting hours, upsetting Bones's hard-won quiet in his sickbay with laughter and cards and a flask full of something that's definitely not water. It's not shore leave, but it's the next best thing, Jim thinks; even on shore leave the odds of ending up sitting with Helo to spectate Kara teaching Spock how to play Spit are a million to one.

"Come on, Spock, the game's like five hundred years old, it's not that hard," she chuckles.

"The objective is speed, then," Spock says, brow furrowed as he surveys the piles of cards before him.

"Yeah," Kara says, tipping the flask up to her lips. "Come on, quit stalling and let's play."

She scoops the cards up, shuffles and deals, and Jim watches rapt as Spock proceeds to beat the pants off Kara without breaking a proverbial sweat. His hands move so fast it's almost hard to follow, and when he smacks one palm down flat on the empty space that signals his victory, Jim all but jumps out of his chair, whooping.

"Next time you try to take us in full colors, just you wait," he crows, laughing at Kara's disgruntled expression.

Chapel pokes her head out of Bones's office with a warning look, and Jim subsides. He doesn't even really still need to be here, but Bones knows he won't keep resting unless someone's watching him, so he doesn't expect to be let out until the rest of his crew are.

Helo goes to sit by his wife, and Jim's a little surprised when Lee Adama comes to take his place. Kara looks a little taken aback too; he sees her eyes slant sideways towards her CO, and rest a little too long before sliding back to her hands.

"We did good work," says Adama with a little grin, looking from Jim to Spock to Kara then back to Jim.

"Yeah," Jim says, nodding. "Kinda surprised we all lived to talk about it, but you know. I guess when the situation needs a little crazy..."

He trails off and Kara finishes, "We're full up here."

Adama grins; it's easy then, to see the regular guy under the uniform. Maybe it's having his father back at the helm, maybe it's having been in the middle of a firefight for the first time in a long time. Jim's not sure what changed, or if anything even did. Maybe he just got to know the guy a little better; either way, he feels a lot better about getting to his feet and offering Adama his hand.

"I haven't had a chance to thank you," he says. "But I'd do it again anytime. Hope I don't ever have to," he adds, and Adama snorts a laugh, shaking Jim's hand. Spock and Kara just look at them, then at each other; as he heads back toward his bed, Jim sees Spock's head tilt to the side, and Kara look away with a slight smile curving her lips.

He doesn't know when they became friends, but he's not arguing. It sits comfortably in his chest; things turned out exactly how they were supposed to. Improbably, he thinks of the elder Spock, and wonders if this happened in his time or if it's something he should be doubly grateful for. Settling back against his pillows with a smile, Jim thinks he probably doesn't want to know the answer.

When the doors open on his quarters, Sulu feels like he hasn't seen them in months. Really it's been about five days, but when one of those was spent running around a weird moon hoping not to get killed by evil robots, and the other four were spent in sickbay, time tends to drag out a little.

Someone's been in to water his plants, and he grins when he turns toward his desk and sees the padd scrawled in Chekov's neat script, "Gaila and I took care of your babies. The ones in the botany lab too. Welcome back."

He flops down on his bed and tucks his hands behind his head, looking up at the ceiling with a smile. He feels different; he couldn't really say why or how, but somehow these past few weeks have done something to settle him. He wasn't unhappy before, he muses, but he thinks maybe he'd lost a little of his sense of direction (the irony of which doesn't escape him).

The pin Kara gave him is in his pocket. He takes it out, holds it up, watches the light gleam off its angles.

Nothing's really changed. He still wants what he always wanted-- to fly, to work hard, eventually to command. But he's seen another side of things now, a different life and a different way of looking at the one he leads.

Staring down the wide vastness of space from the cockpit of a plane not much bigger than he is, Hikaru had realized how it wasn't that much different from looking at it from behind the helmsman's console on the bridge of the Enterprise. More immediate, sure, with a hell of a lot more danger involved-- but (simplistic as it was) he'd sort of realized that flying is flying, however he gets to do it.

Before Hikaru discovered flying he'd loved the ocean, loved surfing and swimming and sailing in it, loved floating on his board with his face turned up to the sun, immersed and surrounded. It felt safe and welcoming, and he'd never thought he'd find a life that drew him to a place where he couldn't greet each day with the sun rising over those blue Pacific swells.

And then he was fifteen and going off-planet for the first time, sitting by the window and watching Earth grow small behind him, never knowing it was his first taste of the wanderlust that would propel him, drive him for the rest of his life.

Flying is what he loves more than anything. More than he wants command, more than he wants recognition, he wants to be out here in space-- _in the black_, he heard someone call it once, and he likes the sound of it. Might be intimidating to some, but to Sulu it sounds like home.

He's happy here, right here, where he is and who he is at this moment. It's not something he probably would have realized without this-- what part of this, he's not sure, but he's not in a hurry to figure it out. He's got time.

They're out of the Neutral Zone by the time they're all let out of sickbay. After reacquainting himself with his quarters, his shower and some real food, Jim goes looking for Kara. When he finds her, finally, it's one of the last places he expects.

"I didn't know you could play," he says, sliding onto the piano bench beside her.

She drops her hand from the keys and glances sideways at him, hunching one shoulder in a shrug. "I don't, really. I learned when I was little-- forgot most of it by now." It doesn't explain why she's here; the rec room is empty and even if she were a virtuoso there'd be no one to hear it but him.

He just grins and starts plunking out the bass part of "Heart and Soul". She laughs, and he has to feel good about that. "So what now?" he asks, his eyes on hers while his fingers move absently over the chords of the Moonlight Sonata.

She shrugs, one shoulder rolling forward. "Whatever's next," she says after a moment's silence. "The cylons are still out there..." she pauses, then adds, her mouth twisting around familiar words, "We're gonna fight 'em till we can't."

He nods like it means something, then clarifies, "I mean for you-- what's next for you?"

It sounds like a challenge, and it sort of is; she doesn't want to talk, but there's not a hell of a lot of time before they part ways, and Jim doesn't want things to settle like this before she goes. "You think I'm holding out on you?"

"No idea," he says blithely. "I just want to know if I can expect to see you the next time our ships cross paths."

Jim can hear her breath catch, and her hands drop to her sides. "How can you expect me to--"

He has to interrupt, because if she starts in on this again he might say something stupid. "We've sort of been through this before and you know where I stand. Look, Kara, I know this old Vulcan who'll talk your ear off about destiny..." He pauses, seeing her start a little at that, and then hurries on, "I don't know if I believe it, but I'm not gonna tell him that-- point is, this death in a blaze of glory you've decided you're doomed for, it's not your _fate_. This stuff isn't decided ahead of time-- at least I can't believe it is. It's-- it's life, it's not a joke, the things we do are important and you can actually choose to change. I'm really not trying to preach," he says, despairing of how sanctimonious he knows he sounds, "but if it hadn't happened to me-- if I hadn't chosen to do something different-- I wouldn't be here right now, I wouldn't have ever even met you, and I wouldn't feel so strongly about it."

She stares at him for so long he starts to wonder if he's pissed her off so much that she's bypassed wanting to punch him and gone straight for figuring out where to hide his body. Then all at once the tension leaves her like water flowing downstream, her shoulders sag and she looks away.

"I don't know what else I'm supposed to do besides what I've always done," she admits, her voice barely audible. "I don't want to end up--" she stops, presses trembling fingers to her lips, can't go on.

Jim slides closer and wraps an arm around her shoulders, touching his lips to her temple. "Hey. You're okay, Kara. Okay?

"I'm not," says Kara, shaky and bitter-sounding. "I haven't been. In a long time." She doesn't have to say the rest, _Maybe not ever_; Jim knows that song better than most, and doesn't need words to recognize it in someone else.

"I wish I didn't know what you meant," he murmurs.

"You-- it's different for you, Jim. I said you were different, and I wasn't kidding." She pulls back enough to meet his eyes. "You can't save me."

"I don't want to," he says honestly. "I want you to save yourself."

Kara leans in and kisses his cheek, the same way she did when he was leaving her bunk, and as her forehead drops to his shoulder she whispers, "I'll try, okay? That good enough for you?"

It's going to have to be; he knows he won't get anything more. He lets her pull back, lets his eyes fall to the piano keys again as she heaves a breath and tucks her hair behind her ears.

"So. You and Spock, huh," she says in a matter-of-fact tone, and he knows it's funny how he starts like a rabbit, but it doesn't stop him glaring at her.

"That obvious, huh?" He tries to snap, but annoyance is fighting a losing battle against a wide, bright smile.

"To me," she replies with a shrug. "I saw it before, the way you look at each other. But it's different now; something happened, didn't it?"

He shrugs, a little red-faced, and rubs the back of his neck. "Yeah, well. You know how almost dying can make you do crazy things."

"Don't be an idiot," she says, rolling her eyes. "You're stupid for each other." Her eyes are wide and clear, and she adds honestly, "It's good to see you happy. You will be, with him. So. Good for you."

Jim's left with that indescribable feeling again, not knowing what to say to make her understand what it means to him that she knows him this well. So he just hugs her again, ignoring her slight sound of protest, folding her tight in his arms and holding until he's damn well ready to let go. "Thanks, Kara," he murmurs. "Thanks."

"It's getting late," she says, and her smile is sweeter and easier than he's ever seen it. "Go on, don't keep him waiting."

As Jim leaves, he hears the piano start up again behind him, a high haunting melody he thinks he's heard before. He's still humming it as he stops in front of Spock's door.

Spock looks up as the hail comes from outside his door, and he clears his throat before answering. "Come in."

Jim has his hands in his pockets as he saunters into the room, grinning. "How're you feeling?"

"Better than yesterday," Spock says; it is as much as he can hope for, with a wound like this. He is nearly healed, but still sore, and for once has taken Doctor McCoy's order of rest without protest.

"So you're saying you're strong enough to get your ass kicked?" Jim teases, grabbing the chessboard from the bookshelf and wheeling over a chair to the small table beside the couch on which Spock is laid out. His energy has brightened the room, and he chatters on amiably while Spock watches his hands set up the board and arrange the pieces.

Jim falls silent as Spock shifts slowly into a sitting position, already considering his first move. He cannot help being distracted by his own unkempt appearance and the disarray of his quarters, things out of place in ways he knows only he would notice, but wishing to fix them nonetheless. He hates to be slovenly, which is how he feels sitting in his pajamas with a blanket rumpled about his waist.

He pushes the feeling aside and moves his first pawn, belatedly answering Jim's question. "I have no intention of allowing you to win," he says, glancing up at Jim with something like relief easing the lines at the corners of his eyes.

"Fighting words from someone who was too distracted to notice T'Shaun's gambit last time we played," Jim retorts, grinning.

"I was not," Spock begins, but he hates to lie, and so he changes what he intended to say. "If I was distracted, it was with good reason."

"And what was that?" Jim prompts, moving his piece and sitting back with a smirk.

Spock gives a silent sigh. Much as he dislikes such admissions, he will not allow pride to prevent him from honesty. "Jealousy. Annoyance. Frustration. All reasons you have cited for your own poor playing in the past."

He can see his frankness has surprised Jim; the captain just raises his eyebrows, barely paying attention to where Spock puts his next pawn. Finally he seems to find his voice. "You-- you're _jealous_ of Kara?"

Spock can feel his face grow warm with a slight flush. "At that time, I was. Of her ability to command your attention and interest-- of the ease with which she did so." There is a pause, and he adds, "I do not feel so any longer."

"Well good," Jim mutters after a long pause of his own, chin propped on one hand, eyes intent on the chess pieces. "I'd hate to think getting shot addled your brain on top of everything else." Spock is presented with the unusual idea that Jim is not saying everything that is on his mind regarding his friendship with the Lieutenant; he would like to ask, but thinks perhaps the subject of Kara Thrace is best left alone.

It is no surprise to Spock that he does not know what to say, or to do. Logic dictates that a change in their relationship would be accompanied by a change in their behavior; but he feels no different around Jim than he did a week or a month or six months ago, and cannot imagine acting any differently than he always has. Whatever bond now exists between them has been so long in growing that Spock can neither track its progress nor isolate its origin.

"It could've been a phaser set on kill, you know." Jim's voice is thoughtful, but he does not raise his eyes from the chess board. "Did you even think of that?"

"I cannot claim to have thought much at all," Spock admits, his mouth quirking wryly. "It was-- instinct."

Jim's eyes slant down, something dark lurking behind them, and he shakes his head. "And you say I'm reckless," he murmurs, almost offhand but for the weight of emotion behind the words, and abruptly Spock's heart is racing. His hand, hovering close to his rook, drops to the table, and he finds himself at a loss for words.

Jim's hand moves to cover his, callused and tentative, and Spock hears his own breath hiss through his teeth. He is unprepared for the flood of feeling that accompanies the touch of Jim's skin to his, unable to discern which part of the tidal wave sweeping him (affection, loyalty, protectiveness, desire, anticipation, and like an undercurrent through it all, something fiercer and wilder and bigger than Spock has words to name) originates from Jim, and which part originates from himself.

"It is the nature of humans to feel unworthy of-- of affection," Spock says slowly, urging his mind to think clearly. "And yet-- as you said to me earlier this week-- we have been friends for quite some time. It should not surprise you to find yourself the object of my esteem." He does not need Jim to tell him there is a wide gap between esteem and throwing oneself in the path of a bullet meant for someone else.

Jim's fingers tense over his as he chuckles, low and appreciative. "Esteem and affection are two different things," he echoes Spock's thought, "and so are affection and-- well-- whatever you want to call this." He gestures between them with his free hand.

Spock finds he cannot resist the easy path to making Jim laugh. "I believe it is commonly called a chess board," he says, feeling the corners of his lips turn up as Jim's head tosses back, his laughter fervent and bright.

Jim's hand is still pressing his warmly against the table, and Spock shifts to lock his fingers around his wrist, slight pressure where the pulse beats against the skin. Without moving, it is an invitation, and Jim understands; pushing the table out of the way, he shoves his chair forward so their knees are bumping, and drops his other hand into Spock's.

"Don't ever do anything like that again," Jim says quietly, his eyes wide and serious.

"You _are_ reckless," Spock maintains, his voice light to disguise the effect on him of Jim's thumbs absently stroking the backs of his hands. "And I find myself--" he pauses, carefully considers his words, then continues, "loath to risk your injury or death when my action could prevent it."

"And what happens if you get killed?" Jim shakes his head, turmoil written clearly across his features. "I don't--" he exhales, tries again. "I badgered you into being my First 'cause I knew I'd be a better captain with you around. But now there's so many more reasons-- I mean I could do this without you, sure, but why would I want to?" One shoulder lifts in a shrug, blue eyes fixated on some point behind Spock's shoulder.

"You are a good captain," Spock counters, letting his fingers begin to stray over Jim's hands, soothing. "You know this. Either of us, indeed any of the crew, could be lost at any time. There is no way to guarantee the future." His head tips to one side, and he adds, "However, if you share my counterpart's belief in destiny, you may at least be reasonably certain that we will be in each other's lives for many years to come."

Jim's eyes snap back to his, clear and startling. "It seems pretty stupid to start believing in destiny just 'cause I like what it's telling me this time," he says wryly. His hands still rest easily in Spock's grasp, and as he heaves a breath and exhales his forehead drops to nudge gently against Spock's.

His voice is barely audible; if he were not so close, Spock would be straining to hear him. "I don't want to let myself think I can have this and then-- be wrong."

Spock can sense his friend's uncertainty, the feeling Jim does not articulate even in his own mind; he spends so much of himself on his ship and his crew, his mind occupied at every moment with the drive to do this right, not to let anyone down, that he scarcely knows how to keep anything solely for himself anymore. Even this simple touch, hands and foreheads, close enough to share breath, feels an indulgence. Spock discovers he is inclined to encourage it.

Jim's hands slide up his shoulders to his neck, and Spock hears a hitch in his own breathing. He steadies it, and tells Jim softly, "You will not be wrong."

Fingers slip roughly through his hair, his own hands resting loose on Jim's knees, and then with a quiet breath (Spock is never sure if it was Jim's or his own) the last inch between them closes, Jim's soft and eager mouth opening to his. Slow at first, not hesitant but unhurried, his palms skim down over Spock's face, fingers at his jaw tipping his chin to one side. Spock lets himself be moved, finding no reason to resist, not when Jim's tongue slides hot and slow against his, rendering him abruptly breathless.

It is too much and not enough; burning up, he casts aside the blanket and shifts forward, his hands on Jim's thighs now, the urgent pull to be closer driving all other impulses away. He feels words against his lips but is loath to give up Jim's mouth long enough to let him repeat himself; but Jim seems to sense that Spock did not hear him, and pulls away with a ragged little gasp.

"Come on," he breathes, drawing Spock to his feet and pulling him back toward the bed. He is flushed and grinning, but his hands are hesitant as they settle on Spock's hips; inches away from the bed Spock stops, unable to stop himself reaching a hand to press hard at the nape of Jim's neck, bruising his mouth with a hard, fierce kiss.

"It is not necessary to be so careful," he says as they part, possessively satisfied at the sudden shortness of Jim's breathing. "You cannot reinjure me."

"I know," Jim says, but he does not sound convinced. He sidesteps, stripping off his shirt and then his jeans, and Spock turns with him, powerless not to look. He cannot ascertain the cause of his fixation; it is not the first time he has seen Jim in a state of undress, and indeed Jim's body is quite familiar to him. Spock cannot count the number of times they have stood side by side, back to back, one pinned beneath the other in a sparring match, one's arm looped over the other's shoulders as they stagger to safety from a hail of gunfire.

And yet there is something unbearably erotic in this artless revelation, Jim's heedless disregard for his own beauty, lust and adoration in his eyes as he pulls Spock's shirt off, shoves lightly at his chest and follows him down onto the bed. His head dips as Spock shifts smoothly up to catch his mouth again, swallowing Jim's groan with a sharp intake of breath.

The rest of their clothes are gone before he processes Jim having moved, and then Jim is licking, biting, sucking his way down Spock's chest, listening to the soft sounds he makes, exhalations and muffled moans he doesn't quite give voice to. His hands trace down the path his tongue has drawn, and Spock's fingers find their way into his hair. He is helpless, melting with the heat blazing under his skin, unable to control his responses and lacking even a slight desire to do so.

Jim looks up then, blue eyes electric in the soft light, and the force of that look is like a swift punch, robbing Spock of words and breath. His hands tighten in Jim's hair to still his movement and the blue eyes glaze as Jim freezes, eyes wide, lips parted in sudden enjoyment. Spock feels one eyebrow go up.

He is on the verge of saying "fascinating" in the tone he knows annoys and amuses Jim in equal measure, but then Jim's mouth is on him and all he can manage is a strangled gasp.

Spock's control over his physical responses was already fraying; now it is all but gone, and he feels his hips surge upward of their own volition, Jim's fingers on his thighs hard enough to bruise yet not enough to keep him still, and every synapse that was occupied with rational thought a moment ago is now dissolved into mindless need, urging him _more, yes, more now_. It occurs to him dimly he has said this aloud, and he does not hear Jim's answering moan so much as feel it shiver through him.

Nails rake his chest and his hand locks around Jim's wrist; the connection that flares between them is not a real meld, but the force of feeling is too strong to ignore, _yes / so hot / want this / give it to me / want to see you_\-- and that flash of insight is all it takes to strip away the last of Spock's coherence.

His hand tightens on Jim's wrist, the other still splayed against his head, clenched tight in a handful of his hair. A shocked and desperate sound tears from his throat as his back arches, head thrown back as he crashes apart, the world dissolving blissfully around him.

Spock opens his eyes a moment later, his pulse still racing, and pulls Jim up on top of him. The hand in his hair slips back, cupping the back of his head and pulling him closer, the other hand twining with Jim's, the tantalizing brush of their fingers in the aftermath making him shudder and flush more vivid than he already is.

His hands map out Jim's skin, feeling the acute tension in every line of his body, _so amazing / gotta go slow / want you / be careful / not too fast_, everything he feels, everything he wants but does not take.

Spock will not allow that to pass unremarked upon, and borrows a human expression to tell Jim so. "You are-- holding out on me," he murmurs, nipping at Jim's neck, his earlobe, gratified by the shudder he feels roll down Jim's spine as his teeth continue to work the sensitive skin below his ear.

Jim laughs, sounding strained as his hands clench hard in the sheets beside Spock's head, his head turned to offer Spock more of his neck. "How do you figure?"

Spock's lips twitch, nearly a smile, as his tongue traces the tendon in Jim's neck, feeling the accompanying shiver work through them both. "I have assured you I will not be hurt by this. Shall I show you?"

Jim clearly expects that Spock will fail to satisfy his claim, but Spock has yet to back down from one of Jim's challenges, and does not intend to begin now.

In a single deft movement, he hooks his ankle behind Jim's knee, a hand on his shoulder, and in a moment their positions are reversed; Jim flat on his back, Spock arched over him, one eyebrow lofted high. "Was that an adequate demonstration?" he asks, bending his mouth to the spot where Jim's pulse flutters at his clavicle.

"Oh," he responds, a word that lengthens into a fervent sound of encouragement as Spock's teeth scrape his collarbone.

"I will take that as an affirmation," he murmurs against the curve of his throat, his knee slipping between Jim's thighs, exhaling sharply through his teeth as fingers dig into his hips, pulling them flush against each other.

"Fuck," Jim whispers, breath hot on his cheek, grinding up helplessly against him, "I want--"

"When I am healed," Spock promises, "I will."

Jim groans, thrusting his fingers into Spock's hair, dragging Spock's mouth back to his neck. His back arches and Spock feels knees press tight against his hips, tense prickling heat building at the base of his spine. Then Jim shifts, twisting beneath him, and Spock lets himself be pushed back against the pillows.

"Okay fine, so you're not an invalid," Jim murmurs, punctuating his words with kisses to Spock's jaw, his neck, the corner of his mouth.

"No," he replies, "but nor am I inclined to be patient at this juncture." He moves to sit upright, legs spread wide, and by pulling on Jim's wrist pulls him around into a comfortable sprawl, his back against Spock's chest. "I trust you do not have any objection to continuing this way," he says.

"Uh, yeah," Jim replies, already half breathless, "I mean no, no objections."

Spock lets his lips brush over the shell of Jim's ear, his hands running down his arms to tangle their fingers together. "Good," he says softly, feeling Jim shiver against him as one pair of their linked hands drifts lower, close to shuddering himself. "Show me," he says, "show me what you want."

And Jim does, one hand setting a slow pace while the other roams his body, guiding Spock's fingers where he wants them to go, showing him with every arch and moan the effects of his touch. For Spock, the sensation of so much skin against his is overwhelming. Their tangled hands send sweet sparks of heat down his spine, flashes of Jim's thoughts crackling through him like lightning. Everywhere they touch he can feel Jim's reaction amplified, how long he's been burning for this, the desperate joy and fierce desire; it rolls over Spock in waves until he is aching, breathing harsh and ragged against Jim's neck.

Jim is talking, he realizes, has been murmuring under his breath nearly since Spock started touching him, his voice now edging toward a distressed whine as the pace of their hands quickens. "You," he gasps, "tell me, want to hear it," low and pleading.

Spock presses his lips to Jim's neck, says against his skin, "I enjoy seeing you like this." Whether it is his words or merely his voice, Jim responds, pressing back against him with a groan. "Seeing you so affected and knowing I am the cause--" he pauses, momentarily arrested by the sight and feel of Jim writhing against him, then forces himself to continue-- "it is a response I will look forward to pursuing again, when my injury will not restrain me from exploring it fully."

Spock can hear the anticipation in his own voice, and Jim surely hears it as well; he moans, high and helpless, and arches against him, every muscle tense, his eyes squeezed shut against the rush of his own release. His mind washes blank of everything but Spock's name; then Jim relaxes boneless against him and Spock turns his head to brush his lips at his temple.

"It would seem that experience was satisfactory," he murmurs, enjoying the incredulous expression he receives in response.

"Talk about an understatement," Jim snorts, and Spock gives in to the smirk he feels building at the corners of his lips, bending to kiss him, slow and deep. Jim sighs in satisfaction, and Spock frees one hand to press against his stomach, a soft sound of contentment humming in the back of his throat.

They will need to move eventually, Spock knows; if they fall asleep this way they will both regret it when they wake. But for now Spock is enjoying this, Jim's languid form resting against him, fingers tracing drowsy patterns on his thigh.

Spock is not given to hedonism, but he will allow himself this indulgence, his hand in Jim's hair, his lips on his neck. He knows that once he is well and they return to the regular routine of their mission, these moments will be rare. He does not intend to let any of them pass unacknowledged.

The last time he goes over to Galactica, Jim can't believe it's only been three weeks since he first set foot on the battered old ship. It's surreal. He jokes with the Chief about finally clearing out the hangar deck, bumps fists with Racetrack as she passes through, tries not to get nervous when Admiral Adama shows up to watch the engineering team disassemble the transporter pad.

"Ready to get back to business, Captain?" The gravelly voice is amused, and Jim turns with a grin.

"Yes sir," he admits. But there's so much more to say than that, and he considers a moment before adding, "I won't miss the mess we all got into. But working with your crew was..." He tries to search for a word that sounds less stupid than 'enlightening', but can't find one. "Let's just say I hope someday I can inspire the kind of loyalty in my people that you do in yours."

Adama seems to think about this for a second. "It doesn't take much. Just let 'em know you're willing to die for 'em." His eyes are deep and piercing. "You are, aren't you?"

Jim's uncomfortable, but manages a laugh; no one's ever thought to ask him that before, but there's no hesitation before his answer. "Of course I am."

Adama's eyebrow goes up and he shrugs. "Do they know that?"

"They should by now. I've pulled enough crazy--" The look on Adama's face stops him short, grave and serious and expectant, like there's an answer in what Jim just said and he hasn't even realized it. He shuts up (something he's learned how to do; despite what he told Roslin, Spock and Uhura usually are pretty good at letting him know when not to talk) and thinks for a second.

He thinks it should be obvious. He dove off the drill into freefall for Sulu before they were even friends; he's made himself the target of a few hundred punches and kicks to keep Spock or Uhura or Scotty from being the ones taking them; and the number of times Bones has had to sew up bullet holes and regenerate phaser burns he took in the line of duty...

He thinks of Spock staring him down over the chessboard, of all the times they've saved each other and fought each other and every single day that's gone into building up what's between them. The same thing's there with Bones, and with Uhura, and Scotty and everyone else too; he's spent almost three years showing these people what they mean to him, and they know he's got their backs. But it dawns on him then that he's going to have to keep showing them. It's not something he ever thought about stopping; it's not really something he ever thought about at all. Maybe that's what it'll take to build up the kind of family Adama has on the Galactica; thoughtfulness and time.

"You did good work, Captain," the Admiral says, cutting into his thoughts. "And you're going to keep on doing it. The rest of my crew might not have heard how you came to be in possession of all that braid on your wrists, but I have, and I know you deserve every inch of it."

It takes Jim a moment to tag the emotion wrapping itself around his chest; it's the feeling of being humbled. "Thank you, sir," he begins, but Adama just waves him off.

"Don't thank me. It's not going to be easy. But it strikes me you wouldn't want it to be." The old man's face creases into a smile. "Did I mention it doesn't surprise me you and Kara are friends?"

Jim laughs then, just as the Lieutenant in question appears at the Admiral's shoulder, the President and the younger Adama not far behind her. "Finally leaving us, I see," she says, her mouth curved in an easy smile.

"Yeah, well, saved your sorry ass enough for one lifetime," Jim replies, holding out his hand to her. She takes it, and there's barely a pause before she yanks him into a hug.

"Thanks, Jim," Kara says into his shoulder, fingers curling against his back before she lets him go. "See you next time you're out on the ass end of Federation space, huh?"

He grins, irrepressible. "Count on it. And watch yourself, it might be sooner than you'd think."

He turns to the Commander then, and quips, "You gonna hug me too?"

They shake hands, and Adama smiles like he's just remembering how. "Take care of yourself, Kirk."

The President shakes his hand and kisses his cheek, wearing that sweet understanding smile again. "Yes, do take care of yourself, Jim," she echoes. "It's truly been a pleasure."

The Admiral salutes him first, and Jim has that ineffable feeling of humility again; he feels like this with Pike, the way he used to remember feeling around his grandfather Tiberius; that if he can turn out to be half the man Adama is, he'll be okay.

"Thank you again, Captain," he says in his bemused raspy voice, gripping Jim's hand briefly. "Good hunting."

Jim lets go of Adama's hand and steps back, folding his hands behind him. "I'll see you all again," he says, and flips open his communicator. "Scotty, whenever you're ready."

The cargo bay dematerializes around him and the last thing he sees is Kara's smile.

 

 

He walks onto the bridge a few minutes later, pausing for a moment just as the turbolift door whooshes shut behind him.

They all turn to look at him; Sulu from the front of the room, Uhura to his right, Scotty and Chekov at one of the calculation screens, even McCoy stands looking restless beside the captain's chair, and when Jim steps down toward it Spock gets up, acknowledging Jim's return to his post with a nod.

And if Spock's eyes linger a little longer on his, if his eyebrow goes up in the way Jim's learned to read as bemused and teasing, well. He doesn't need more reasons to smile today, but he'll take them anyway.

"Captain, we have received word from Starfleet Command," Spock says as Jim takes his seat, swiveling toward him with both eyebrows up.

"And what did they have to say?" He's a little dry, a little bemused; he's going to have to speak to Barnett later on, and he's looking forward to the number of times he plans to point out how well they cleaned up out here.

"They wish to offer their congratulations on our success, and Admiral Archer informed me he plans to issue a commendation to the entire crew for valor and loyalty to the Federation."

Spock's voice is rolling through the words a hairsbreadth slower than usual, like he enjoys the sound of them, and Jim can't say he blames him. The nod to his crazy plans working out is nice, but the commendation for his crew is the paydirt. Jim knows he's got the best crew in the fleet; he can't help it if he wants everyone else to know it too. He's grinning broad and satisfied as he asks, "They say where we're headed next?"

Spock nods. "We are to resume our scheduled course and plan to dock at Deep Space Two in a week's time."

"Alright then." Jim looks ahead, out the viewscreen to the stars, and settles back in his chair with a silent sigh. This is where he belongs, he knows it with everything he's got in him; exploring and discovering all the wonders the galaxy holds is what he was meant for, and Jim just knows he'll never tire of it.

He glances at Spock, still standing beside him, and grins, unrepentant and sweet, earning a slight curl at the corners of his First Officer's lips in return. Satisfied, he nods and turns back with a forward motion toward the viewscreen.

"Sulu, take us out," he says, and the Enterprise goes to warp, heading into the wide expanse of star-stung black, to the reaches of space they've yet to explore.


End file.
